A Gift from the Past
by Starwatcher2018
Summary: First in a series of mysteries post POTO25. Using gifts from their respective pasts-some not always tied with ribbon, Erik & Christine deepen their personal relationship & relationships with those around them, including Raoul, Nadir, Madame Giry. Life becomes intense when a ballet girl returns after being abducted and a villain from Erik's past threatens the life they are building.
1. The Birthday Gift

**A/N – This piece is about 98% ALW POTO25 (I have not seen the stage performances, except to watch Ramin's Final Lair scene from the London show) and 2 very important % Kay. This is my first fanfic after about 20 years of writer's block. This is an obsession I have come to late in life and I hope you enjoy my interpretation of Erik's thoughts and the turn I take.  
**

 **I have no ownership of the characters – they belong to Gaston Leroux, Susan Kay and Andrew Lloyd Webber, and I am grateful to them for providing such wonderful people to inspire my writing again.**

 **The Birthday Gift**

"Christine, I love you."

Erik doesn't know what else to say to her.

Moments ago he had felt as though his heart had been torn from his chest leaving a gaping hole that he couldn't imagine would ever heal. His brain had been fraught with the internal thunder that had driven his life, revived in these past seconds, minutes, hours – how long had it been? The old pain revisited. The humiliation, frustration and desperate longing had overtaken him again. What had he done? What had he done?

Yet, here she is standing in front of him and he is determined to recover at least some of what he believes to be his lost sanity.

He stands up, not entirely aware of how he came to be crouched on the floor next to the music box. He straightens his vest and might have smoothed his wig, but it was gone – gone with the mask, left behind on the stage. He smiles and shakes his head, embarrassed to be found so completely vulnerable. The face that he so despised was uncovered to the world, such as it was at the Opera Populaire, but that was irrelevant now. She had said herself that his face was of no matter to her. His soul was the issue.

His soul. Had something changed? She is here. He feels changed, but he can't be certain. Perhaps the feeling of nothing more to lose is what gave him the courage to say those words: I love you.

For the moment, though, he simply wants to make himself presentable to her, hoping she hadn't seen his breakdown after she had left with the boy. All the suffering in his life, all the rage he had felt and expressed over the years held nothing to the complete sense of ruin he had felt at letting her, encouraging her, forcing her to leave him and go with the boy. That stupid, insolent child.

He had demanded that she choose between him and the young vicomte. She had chosen him. He wasn't truly surprised. Never could he have imagined how she would indicate her choice. A word would have sufficed. Simply saying you enough.

But she had kissed him. No one had ever kissed him before. The kiss took him by surprise and he couldn't even find the presence of mind to touch her arms, much less return the kiss. Her full lips, so soft against his tasted of honey. He detected the faint scent of vanilla and lavender in her chestnut curls. She pressed herself to him in an embrace that caught him even more unawares. This was not one of those cordial hugs you observe people exchange in greetings. She pulled him to her roughly and with a strength he never imagine her having. Her heart was beating in time with his. Her breasts pressed against his chest. The breasts he dared brush against during their fateful duet. His knees held, but he had thought he was going to melt. The Angel in Hell had found himself in heaven and he was still alive. She was still alive.

He didn't know what to do with his hands – the hands that could create a sonata without a second thought. Hands that had killed more than once – so many times more. Hands that could turn raw stone into buildings. Magical hands. Now, they were hands that just flailed at the air, too terrified to touch her, to return her embrace. Afraid that if he did, he might never let go.

His thoughts drifted back to his fifth birthday.

 _He had asked his mother if he could have a present. She told him that he could have whatever he wanted within reason. She waited expectantly – "Well?"_

 _"I would like – I would like two…"_

 _She became impatient and her anger only grew when he wouldn't tell her. Was terrified to tell her._

 _When he finally drummed up his courage and said, "Kisses." She began crying and told him he must never ask for that – ever._

Here it was. The gift he had so desperately wanted as a child, but felt he could never have. He was too ugly and that ugliness would infect anyone he kissed. The way his mother had said to never ask suggested to him that the person might actually die from the touch of his distorted lips.

Christine had pressed her small, soft hands in a gentle blessing against his ravaged face, her left hand caressing his mottled and scarred cheek, resting against the destroyed flesh and distorted skull. Her right hand brushed back the sparse graying hair that grew sporadically over his head.

He felt her breath and when her tongue pressed against his lips again with an urgency he could hardly comprehend, he opened himself to her and returned her kiss. They had become one. Was that not what he had written? Becoming one? They were kissing each other fully and completely as if this was what all the sorrow and horror had been leading up to. This kiss connected with something deep in his soul that he knew could only come from someone who loved and wanted him.

 _"One for now and one to save for later."_

Two kisses. A bond had been forged between them and with that revelation, he knew that he had to let her go. This was the exorcism that the priest wanted for him so many years ago. He had been forever altered.

He had to release her to Raoul, that young fool who wanted him dead at any cost. That silly boy who risked his life for her, not knowing that he could have snuffed out the young life at any time in the past, but at no time more opportune than this. He could call him by name now that he was no longer intent on killing him. It is easier to kill when the object of your attack doesn't bear a name.

He did not want to give her over to this aristocrat, who for all his good intentions, was not a man and who could never love Christine as he did. But he could not keep her here now. He had never believed he had an immortal soul until today. Now he feared for his eternal life should he betray this beautiful woman who had gifted him with her love and compassion. Christine had shown him what his mother instructed was a lie; his gratitude far outweighed his deep need to keep her with him. He had to prove he was a good man. His smile was sour as he processed that thought.

She loved him. She would never kiss Raoul in that way. Her soul was bound with his now. Whatever happened from here on in with the boy would be colored by the kiss she had shared with his body and his soul. He had to be satisfied with that.

He gently grasped her shoulders and broke away. He felt her clear, green eyes – eyes that would change from dark to light like a mountain stream based on her mood – study him; he could easily drown in those eyes, but he dared not hold her gaze, he would become as hypnotized as she already appeared to be. He needed to gather himself, maintain the resolve he had found to do what was right for her.

He pressed his hands against hers and walked away from her. This wasn't what he wanted. He wanted to crush her in his arms and caress every part of her and ravish her with kisses, but that, he knew, was wrong. Not when he was finally understanding what redemption might be. To have felt joy for the first time in his life. He wanted more, but he dared not hope, dared not risk losing what he had already come to know.

 _"One for now and one to save for later."_

Here is your compassion, his thoughts became a scream as he burned the end of the noose releasing Raoul. He hadn't needed the Punjab lasso for this adversary – the noose sufficed. The boy was practically killing himself with his efforts to get away. How ironic that would be. He didn't want any deaths tonight. He truly didn't. He merely wanted the boy to understand what he had done. Raoul had to fear for his life as he had just done there on the stage with the guns pointed at him - poised to kill as Raoul had directed them to do. Fear for his own life, as he might likely do again if the mob discovered the entry to his home.

He could, however, take some pleasure in watching the fool's discomfort. When he pulled away from Christine, the look on the boy's face was priceless. He suspected that Raoul was wondering how she could have kissed his face, embraced his body and caressed his skull. The disgust on Raoul's face was plain, but there was fear as well. Did he realize what had been exchanged between him and Christine? In any event, what the boy thought or felt mattered not.

He had ordered they leave and forget everything.

It was too dangerous now for all of them. Whatever commitment his and Christine's hearts had made to one another, all of their physical selves were in jeopardy. In his long life of torment and abuse at the hands of others, even that of his mother – there had been no suffering as great as this, in this moment watching her leave his home with the boy.

He had been broken and his screams of anguish tore through him until he was weak with exhaustion. He wanted to die, but instead he had survived, yet again. The music box drew his attention, his only constant companion. The little monkey never judged, never hurt or abused him – he just played his cymbals and his little tune. He sang gently to the music and found some solace in the toy. Music would heal him again. Had he completed his penance? Was he finally free of the hatred and anger that had festered inside him for his entire life?

A rustling of silk rouses him from his reverie.

He rises and turns to see if it's true. His breathe catches in his throat. The elegant wedding gown that he'd designed for her is torn and dirty. There would be no wedding now. But they had pledged their troth with the kiss. And he had let her go. But she is here. She is real.

Why? What, he wondered what she would say now? Do now?

She takes his hands and kisses them – her tears flow freely onto his callused and scarred fingers, fingers that she once said she loved.

"Christine, I love you."

She nods and draws a deep breath. "Yes," she whispers and looks back, over her shoulder, then returns her gaze to look deeply into his amber eyes.

He follows her glance. Raoul is gone. He turns back to her. "What…"

"Erik, _I_ love _you_."

"Oh." He lifts her delicate hands to his ruined lips and kisses them. His ring is there on her finger. His emotions are raw and the wonder of what is happening is almost more than he can bear.

One of his alarms sounds. It reminds both of them that they are in danger here.

"We must hide."

Her eyes darken in a moment of fear, then the calm returns. "I will follow wherever you lead me."

He has no words. He is in awe of her grace and trust in him. He must be found worthy.

"Come." He leads her to his carved mahogany chair next to the music box. He turns the head of the monkey; the chair slides back to reveal a large square opening in the floor. A faint musty smell rises from the hole. He grabs a torch, lights it and hands it to Christine. "Climb down and wait for me."

The discarded veil on the floor catches his attention. He picks it up and jams it into his vest.

Lighting another torch for himself, he takes one last look at the room that was his sanctuary. It will likely be destroyed by the mob if they get past the traps he'd set. He hopes they will spare the organ, but he can't think about that now. There are places he had created in the event that this might happen. An odd sense of peace floods over him as he leaves this place he had created and had been his home.

He follows Christine down to another level of darkness into the passage, hopefully to return to the light.

A moment later, the monkey's head turns, seemingly on its own and the ornate chair shifts smoothly back into place.


	2. Friendship

RINGS

The odors of the tunnels ceased to bother Christine months ago – the musty mildew and the vague, but ever present stench of rat defecation combined with the damp, clean smell of the water in the lake were strangely welcoming to her. There were still living rats that would scamper over her feet, but Erik paid the rat catcher well to trap those and remove the dead ones, so at least the smell of their death was absent.

She felt comforted walking through the tunnels now, holding her torch high so that it wouldn't brush against Erik. He had taken the lead once they both climbed down the ladder to escape the music room. The threat that the throng might arrive on the level above them seemed imminent and they were moving quickly in the event the mob had discovered the escape route.

She was concerned about the bulk of the now torn and dirty silk wedding dress Erik had her don for their "wedding." He had torn off the train and bustle and stashed it into his vest that already held the veil. She had to smile at his look of dishevelment. He was always so particular about his appearance. Were he not so determined now to save them, he would be appalled at how he looked. "Sorry, my dear, that I am not dressed appropriately for this occasion." His mask was gone, as was his wig. He had removed his jacket and the veil and pieces of the gown stuffed unceremoniously in his vest gave him the look of a fat-bellied old man. She actually giggled at this description of the man who just moments ago seemed determined to kill both her and Raoul had she not chosen him as her mate.

"Something amuses you, my dear?"

"No, no, just clearing my throat."

"Ah, I thought you might be admiring my humble form. I recognize that at the moment I am not looking my best, shall we say."

She giggled again. He would always be able to read her mind.

* * *

That he thought she would choose otherwise was still a surprise to her. But then, she hadn't given him much encouragement of late. She had been playing at being engaged to Raoul, but of late, he had become too demanding and overbearing. She was confused about her feelings and Raoul kept pushing at her. She was so ashamed that she agreed to his stupid scheme. People might have been killed. That he actually wanted to kill Erik had never occurred to her. Raoul had told her that they just wanted to arrest him, to question him.

Could she ever make that up to Erik? He seemed to forgive her anything.

She was sorry that the gown had been ruined. It couldn't have been more beautiful – out of a fairy tale. She was a child born and raised to fairy tales and had the "wedding" been set for another place and time, she would have gladly worn the gifts that Erik had created just for her. This might have been the kind of dress she would have chosen for herself had she married Raoul. But she was never going to marry Raoul.

She had told him that when they first started meeting on the roof of the Opera House. He was so dear and loving and it was a lovely fantasy, but would never come to be. She had promised Erik that she would marry no one and wore his ring, an oval black diamond set in a simple platinum band. The ring was so very Erik – elegant, simple and black.

So long as she wore his ring, she and Raoul would be safe.

She trusted him. He had terrified her and loved her in the same breath on so many occasions. But an unusual love had developed during the time she spent with him. It was part the vocal training and learning how to use her voice and getting lost in the music they made together. But another, more significant part had been just getting to know one another – reading and listening to him play his creations. It was as if she was back with her father, but more. This was what she had envisioned marriage to be.

He had furnished a small bedroom and bath for her adjacent to the music room and had never presumed to enter. It would be at a later time when she saw that he had put bolts on the door. She had not seen them because there had been no thought that she would need them

A beautifully carved armoire held day dresses and shoes and under things – clothing he had purchased for her. More garments and of finer quality than she had ever had in her life of travelling with her father from town to town. The bathroom was stocked with toiletries and clean, white towels. There was a small tub with hot running water and an unusual chamber pot that wasn't a pot at all, but vessel with a seat on it. It was always clean and she blushed wondering who kept it so clean. She had never seen a bathroom like this and assumed it was yet another of Erik's many inventions.

There was a small kitchen in the apartment and, what she presumed was Erik's bedroom. She had managed to glance into it once when he was coming from the room and her eyes settled on what looked to be a coffin. He glared at her when he caught her looking inside the room and shut the door firmly. "You have no need to know of my private chamber."

No, she didn't, and she actually felt safer after his comment. He would not be inviting her into his room and that suited her just fine. Or did it – there were those mixed emotions again. Her body felt warm just thinking about the possibility. She felt incredibly drawn to him physically. Although tall and thin, she could see his muscles stretch and retract when he was playing the organ. His hand were extremely long and thin – too long and thin perhaps, but the fingers were so beautiful, possibly the most beautiful element of his body, and he always seemed to be playing music even when there was no instrument around.

* * *

Eyeing the ring, Raoul queried, "Are you going to marry him, then?" His eyes begged her to say no.

She bowed her head and shook it slightly. A very small smile curved her pink lips as she looked back up at him, "I doubt I'll marry anyone. But we can pretend that we are engaged."

"I don't believe that for a minute," he scoffed. "You are going to marry me, you'll see."

After the chandelier fell and the Opera House closed for reparations, she told Raoul that they could be secretly engaged.

The next time they met, he gave her a ring – so different from Erik's. It was so Raoul, a platinum band, just as Erik had chosen, but wider due to the presence of a very large emerald cut white diamond with a diamond baguette on either side. It was beautiful and, no doubt very expensive – she had no knowledge of these things, but thought that Erik's smaller black diamond might be of equal or greater worth. Although the ring Raoul presented to her was larger in scale, it was so…ordinary. She had seen rings like these every day on the hands of the ladies who came to the opera. The sparkle that dotted the lobby was almost blinding at times with the society women flashing their gems. Oh, my, she scolded herself for such condescending thoughts. The ring had have to cost a fortune and Raoul was so sincere, still the ring was ordinary and gaudy. Except for the size, there was nothing unique or special about it.

"I will wear this ring on the chain with the crucifix my father gave me at my First Communion."

"At least try it on, just to check the fit for the time when you will wear it," Raoul pleaded. "It cannot match your beauty, but I only hoped to complement it."

Christine blushed and nodded. She removed Erik's ring and placed it carefully in her pocket. Then she placed the diamond on her finger and held it up. Sunlight bounced off the facets and the diamond sparkled, proud of its beauty, happy to be in the light – in its rightful place on the finger of a beloved person.

"Oh, Raoul, it is truly a wonderful ring, but much too grand for me."

"If I could give you the world I would – this ring is a mere token."

Christine giggled and got to her feet. The ring did make her feel a little giddy and special. "It's getting late and I must go. Mama Valerius will be wondering where I've got to." She took off the long silver chain that held the crucifix and after removing the diamond from her finger, placed it on the chain and returned the chain to her neck. She tucked the ring into her bodice out of sight.

"This will be our secret." He pulled her to him and pressed his mouth against hers. She allowed him the kiss. It didn't change anything. When he released her, she touched his cheek and smiled sadly.

She reached into her pocket to retrieve Erik's ring and it was gone. Her heart was racing, she patted her dress and her cloak – searched every pocket and bit of lining. "Oh, no," she cried. She turned around and her eyes were searching for the small ring.

"What?" Raoul saw the panic in her face and actions. "What's wrong?"

"Erik's ring is gone. I put it in my pocket and now it's gone." Her pale green eyes were full of tears that threatened to overflow. "We must find it. We must."

The both fell to their knees and began searching the floor of the roof. The sun was going down and any light that might have given them assistance in their search was swiftly fading.

"Oh, God," she cried. "We are done. We are done."

"Don't be silly, Christine." Raoul grasped her shoulders and gave her a shake. "Stop it, you are becoming hysterical."

"You don't understand, he will kill us both." Her eyes were pleading. "He told me that if I wasn't wearing the ring when next he saw me, he didn't know what he might do. He won't understand. He will think I have betrayed him."

* * *

Erik was deeply jealous of Raoul and she couldn't bear his questioning looks whenever he saw them together, so she started avoiding the boy. She had no desire to take up with him again. Their relationship was in the past. It had been a happy memory of her times with Papa, but nothing more.

If Raoul felt something for her, that wasn't her fault. In her heart she was committed to Erik.

After one chance encounter with Raoul in the passageway to her dressing room, Erik had confronted her.

"Why do you not speak to him anymore?"

"He's just an old friend. He - he means nothing to me," she stammered.

"Those two phrases contradict one another, my dear," he smirked. "Either he means nothing, which is fine and good. Or he is a friend, in which case, it would seem you would wish to spend time with him _as a friend._ " He grabbed her wrist, not tightly, but the intent was clear – she must tell the truth.

"He is a friend," she sighed. "I knew him when I was a child. Papa would play violin for his family and we often played together and read stories with him."

Erik released his grip and smiled with the edge of his mouth that she could see, but it didn't reach the amber eyes – they were cold and hard. "Well, then, you must treat him as such. As someone who is not known for having many friends, if any, I do believe that you are supposed to at least speak to them when they are in your presence. No?"

Christine nodded.

"Good," Erik said. "So long as you wear my ring, I will know that you and he are 'just' friends. Should that change and I see the ring is gone, then that will be another story."

His eyes pierced her heart – it skipped a beat as if he had squeezed it with his hand.

She knew of his past cruel life, both being the abused and the abuser, murderer, assassin.

* * *

One day, shortly after he had brought her to the music room, he was composing and completely in the thrall of his music. She had removed his mask. It was meant to be a playful act. It became a horror.

"Damn you." It was the scream of a madman.

Epithet after epithet spat from his mouth like a dissected abscess spewing noxious, green pus.

His words assaulted her like heat from a blast furnace. The priests had spoken of damnation and hell fire in sermons at church and, like most children it had the intended effect on her, she was afraid, but shrugged off the description when church was over. Once she and Papa were outside in the sun and flower-scented air, fire and brimstone were brief memories. She was a good girl and she knew it. Papa never had reason to be angry with her, so hell was just some sort of distant make believe place that she would never have to be concerned about – now or ever. The devil was just as mythical as the fairies her father had told her existed in the woods.

Nothing could have prepared her for this… this anger – the word didn't begin to describe what was erupting from his body and directed at her. His entire being appeared to glow with red flames, perhaps it was the color of the embroidered jacket he wore, such a different choice for him, but the effect was terrifying. He grabbed her by the throat and she was certain that she was going to die.

So this was hell.

Such an innocent act she believed it to be. She had no intention of hurting him – she just wanted to see him. She wanted to touch him. He had been so good to her, despite some of his outbursts. He was her angel, but he had turned into a violent, dangerous man in a matter of seconds.

She was going to die.

Her voice was cut off, she couldn't tell him her intentions – only her eyes could plead with him. He loved her eyes. He spoke of her eyes as mountain pools of clear water changing from light to dark as her moods and the light changed. Now she suspected they were dark with fear. Please, oh, please, look into my eyes. I'm so sorry.

Miraculously, he did. He had heard her. He could always hear her. He released his grip and she fell to her knees. She picked up the porcelain mask that lay on the floor next to her and turned her head away as she handed it to him.

He took the mask from her and put it on. He smoothed his hair and with a deep breath, regained his composure. The monster was gone. Her angel had returned.

She saw that he had been frightened, too. This was not a new experience for him. Something in his manner advised that. Despite the return of his composure, he was shaken.

There was no apology, but he did take her hand gently. "My dear, allow me to assist you." He walked her over to a burgundy-colored velvet settee and indicated that she sit down.

"May I?" he asked, indicating that he wished to sit next to her.

She nodded acquiescence. She was still in shock and prayed silently that the episode was truly over. Her hands were shaking and she put them under her skirt to hide the tremors.

"Would you like some tea… water?"

She shook her head. "No, no." All she wanted was for her heart to stop racing, to be able to draw a calm breath.

Erik was watching her struggle. He shook his head and put it in his hands. His fingers dug into his scalp and he began to speak.

"Never would I willfully harm you. I do love you, more than you know. More than I should.

"There are parts of me that I desperately want to control, but at times it becomes impossible. I can make no excuses – there are none. I cannot apologize because that would imply the behavior would never happen again. I cannot promise that, only that I wish it to be so.

"What I can do is tell you a bit about my life and let you decide whether I am still worthy of your company."

He then proceeded to tell her about his life from being exploited and raped by the gypsy king, to his service with the Persian Shah. She suspect he left out much, but she understood that he had killed in the past – often willingly and often for pay. He had become numb to it. In some instances it was his automatic response, done without any thought at all.

"Is that where you got this jacket?"

He looked down at the embroidered garment, surprise filled his eyes. For a moment he was taken aback, he had forgotten that he had put it on. Putting on sensuous clothing when he was here working alone was one of his few indulgences. The majority of his existence was almost monk-like. He had given Christine a small dose of laudanum so that he could work on a section of Don Juan Triumphant that was troubling him. Perhaps the decadence of the jacket would inspire him to complete the banquet scene. He was impatient to finish it and didn't want to disturb her or have her disturb him.

"Yes, there were many things to discover in Persia. Incredible beauty and incredible pain, but even that had a beauty to it." He had drifted away from her for a moment, then roused himself and returned to the present. He smoothed the scarlet lapels of the garment. Segments of heavy brocade of various patterns in red and gold were stitched together with utmost care to form the garment that fit him perfectly. It was one of the few articles of clothing that wasn't black or gray or white. "I purchased it on a lark. It was so beautiful. I desperately wanted beauty in my life and this was the most I could achieve in the moment."

He then told her of his friend – although he didn't use that word – simply called him the daroga. Nadir was the Persian sheriff who helped him escape from his imprisonment there that would have meant certain death for him. He had designed and built a palace for the Shah and had to be destroyed because he knew it secrets. He had ended his revelation with the words, "I promised Nadir that I would never kill again. I deeply desire to keep that promise."

Then he took her hand. "I think it's time to take you home. But first I would like to give you a gift. An amulet, if you will."

She shook her head. "I don't need a gift or amulet, as you call it. I trust you."

"You shouldn't." His cat's eyes held hers in a fierce look that she couldn't read. Her stomach turned – out of fear or excitement, she wasn't certain, perhaps they were the same thing.

He rose and walked to the sideboard against the wall next to the entrance of the small kitchen. He opened the center drawer and removed a small velvet bag from a carved wooden box. He brought the bag back to the settee and sat down. He opened the bag and removed a small ring. Taking her hand, he placed the ring on her finger.

It was breathtaking. It was a simple ring consisting of a thin platinum band and setting that would not distract from the beauty of the multi-faceted oval black diamond that was its centerpiece.

"The diamond isn't large by many standards, a bit over 3 carats, but the stone itself is perfect. There are no flaws and the color, of course, is rare. The art is in the carving, of course, examining the stone and having it advise the cutter where the facets should be placed to reveal the soul of the stone."

"I can't."

"You must. So long as you wear this ring, I will be your protector from both myself and others. Thus, it is more than a ring, but a magic charm." He smiled, but it was a grim smile. After that, she would visit him at his home on a regular basis to train. With his help as the Opera Ghost, she was becoming a star at the opera. Then the chandelier fell and he disappeared. Gone without a word either in person or by note.

Nevertheless, she continued to wear the ring. Until this night, when she took it off to try on on the ring that Raoul had offered to her.

* * *

Her body had turned to ice. She should never have taken it off. Oh, God, what was she thinking? She shivered and tightened her cloak around her. She was going to die, she knew it. He would kill her and Raoul. He said he wouldn't kill anymore, but that was before, before her presence in his life.

Why she had such power, she didn't know. She wished she knew because then maybe she could do something to change it.

But he loved her. He told her that all the time. Sometimes with tears, sometimes with anger. It was as if all the love he'd never experienced in his life had concentrated on her and she felt so unable to carry the weight of it. He would know and he would believe that she had betrayed him. She hadn't, but that's what he would think. She knew him too well.

She loved him, too. That was the strangest part. Perhaps as deeply as he loved her, but it was too much. Their love was not of this earth, but she _was._

Raoul was, too. Loving him didn't stir feelings in her that she couldn't handle. He was sweet and simple and easy. Loving him was easy.

"Dear God, where is that ring?" she screamed into the ever darkening night.

"Let's go," Raoul said gently, leading her away from the roof and back to the world. "We'll come back and look for it in the morning. "He's gone anyway. He won't know. We'll find it and all will be well."

Christine nodded and dried her tears. "I hope you're right."

They left the rooftop, scurrying like two children afraid of a coming storm.

Erik came out from behind the statue where he had been observing them. He had been somewhat surprised to find Christine there with Raoul, but had told her to see him. Invited the betrayal, but he was surprised nonetheless.

Odd, he had just wanted to see the city from the top of the building he had helped create and found them talking. Perhaps his desire for a look at the view was tied to his feeling that she might be there. Even when he wasn't seeking her out, he knew where she was.

They were too involved in their conversation and had no consciousness of his arrival. He saw the large diamond and how Christine had hidden it. He almost choked when the boy kissed her and she allowed it.

Although she hadn't been aware of it, he had seen his ring drop from her cloak – the ring he had stolen from the treasury of the Shah – and he saw her panic. "Yes, my dear, you panic with good reason. You betrayed me with that idiot child. You scorned me by disgracing the ring I had gifted you with. I had started to believe in mercy, that there really was such a thing, but no more. **No More**."

He walked over to the ring that was stuck in a small crack in the tar. It had fallen next to her foot, but she didn't see it. More's the pity. He wasn't certain that his feelings of disappointment would have been any less had she found it and put it back on. Were he not there, he might have never known of her betrayal. He had promised that no harm would come to her so long as she wore it. Well, it was of no mind, he was here and she had failed to hold up her end of the bargain.

"One should never bargain with the devil, my dear, or the devil's acolyte." He picked up the ring and admired the sparkling stone as it reflected the light of the moon. He put it on his left pinky finger. With a flair of his cape he turned and climbed over the edge of the roof and disappeared.

* * *

She had always known that she loved him. Angel or man. What she hadn't known was how it was to kiss him, to love him physically. So much could have been avoided, but things were what they were. Once she kissed him and he returned the kiss, there was no question as to who she would spend her life with.

Erik demanded they leave – both of them. He hadn't even considered that she would stay. He had decided that she would go.

She had to get Raoul out of there. Erik was on the verge of another breakdown and she was afraid for Raoul's life despite the fact that Erik had freed him.

She dragged Raoul from the room and walked him back to the boat.

"Good-bye, my old friend," she whispered. "My life is here."

He looked at her in shock. "Despite all that has happened here tonight?"

" _Because_ of what has happened here tonight," she replied. "At first I thought I kissed him because I didn't want you to die. That was true in a sense, I didn't want you to die." She gave him a sad smile. "But, I also knew that I kissed him because I wanted to live."

Raoul shook his head and grabbed her shoulders and tried to kiss her.

"No. Don't. Please." She shook him off. "Please just go. Thanks to you the mob is looking for him – for us."

"That's not true."

"It is, and you know it." The anger in her voice shocked him. "I had to stop them from killing him by humiliating him, I had to shock him enough to act, to get us out of there before they shot him. You call him a murdered, but you are the one who wanted to kill tonight. You are the murderer in your heart. You had best thank God you didn't get your wish."

Raoul could only stare at her.

"All he wanted was to sing his opera with me and give me back the ring I had so carelessly lost. _You_ forced me to shame him. I hope he will forgive me."

He dropped his head in defeat. "I'm sorry, I just wanted to save you."

She waved him away, as if he were a pesky fly. "Tell yourself what you will." She turned and ran back to the door to the house. "Tell _them_ what you will. Just go away."

"Christine," he cried, but she didn't hear him.

What she heard was her angel of music crying and she had to comfort him – tell him that it was he that she loved and would love always.

* * *

The entire evening didn't seem real. This doesn't seem real. Once again she finds herself following Erik through the darkness to where? Someplace safe – that she knows.

"Christine, stay close," Erik whispers. "This area is tricky, I never quite got around to completing it to my satisfaction. When all you have is time, twenty years seems like nothing when you think there will always be the next day or week or year."

She laughs lightly. "Not to worry, I am here, my love." She places her hand on his shoulder and lets it rest there for a moment. He quivers at her touch and releases a soft sigh. She doesn't see his shy smile or the tears in his eyes, but senses them. "I am here – tomorrow, next week, next year and beyond."


	3. Secrets

Helpmeet

Erik presses his hand against the wall of the tunnel; a door swivels opens where no door appears to have existed before.

Christine recalls the first time she experienced this bit of magic – the mirror in her dressing room. It was her first physical meeting with the man who would change her life forever. The door to the lake house had a similar opening. She has no true recollection of that first visit, being under the spell of Erik's singing and his gift of hypnosis. However, when she began to take lessons, he showed her how to activate the door with a simple touch at a specific point in the stone.

He turns a screw on a small sconce, lighting the small anteroom. Walking to the far wall across from the entry, he walks to the far wall and performs the same exercise with two large white, ginger jar shaped lamps embellished with hand-painted roses sitting on a carved mahogany parson's table. The room fills with a soft light. Christine follows him inside; the house is decidedly warmer and fresher smelling than the tunnels they just left. Her face reflecting a mixture of amazement and query; she turns to him, eyes bright in wonder. "How did you bring it down here?" She takes a seat on the settee, waiting for him to answer.

"Tapped into the gas lines of the Opera House." He is pleased at her question; the pride in his efforts are evident in his stance. He is teacher and maestro once again. "It is still being used almost exclusively in the Opera House, although the change is being made to electricity. I am still experimenting with bringing that down here as well. It's a matter of attaching more cable to that which I laid under the water of the lake when first constructing this house. I installed it to allow for the alarms set up in the tunnels to announce 'visitors.' Electrical lights down here, yes, they are my plan, much less dangerous.

"The streets outside are beautifully lit, but are not practical for use in the home at the present. Mr. Edison has invented something called a light bulb and is making much progress. Even with the cable, wiring has to be installed within the walls, outlets created and lamps must be converted to accept the electricity and the bulbs." He strides around the room indicating with his hands where the wiring would go. "Much of that is just having the time, always a matter of time. We must be content with the gas lighting here for now, but soon, very soon I will be able to bring electricity to our home."

His animation is infectious. Christine clasps her hands at his pleasure. "No more candles?" She jokes.

"No." His tone is adamant, but softens when he looks at her lovely face. "Perhaps for atmosphere," he concedes, "but, otherwise, no. Truly messy and a horrid expense." Erik's excitement grows as he explains his designs and future plans for the home. "There are so many possibilities to having access to such power, who knows what it can be used for?"

He's never been quite so enthusiastic about anything other than music…and her, to her recollection. Her heart leaps with joy for his joy. There is no pain attached to this love for science and building. No consciousness of his face. He appears to have forgotten that he wears no mask at the moment.

* * *

Christine studies the visage that caused and continues to cause him such grief. The left side of his face is normal and quite handsome if a firm square jaw and carved cheekbones are any indication, especially when he dons the white porcelain mask. The right, however, is a mass of what appears to be scar tissue, almost as if the skin melted and puddled into oddly shaped ridges, particularly in the area around his nose. The scarring appears to pull the right eye down, so the two eyes are not quite level. Of course, she reminds herself, no one has both eyes identical, but the addition of the scarring make the differences more apparent. The adjacent to his right temple appears to have a section of bone missing with the skin stretching tightly over that area. Then there is the very definite ridge along the top of his head. The left side of his skull rises perhaps a quarter inch higher than the right, becoming what is, for all intents and purposes, a skull normal in shape and size.

It is, by any standard, an ugly, deformed face – one that can, has and would likely continue to instill horror and fear in those unfamiliar with it – as it had in her.

It seems so long ago.

Tonight, she acted so impulsively. She uttered a prayer to God before reaching out to Erik, but her heart was with Pappa. Being raised on tales of hobgoblins, witches and all manner of ghouls, Christine often found herself in worlds where the heroes were often horrible looking creatures who could be transformed by a kiss.

Was he really a prince beneath the face that so damaged his life? She had to know. So she kissed him – not once, but twice. After that, there was no turning back. One moment in time brought her here. Except it wasn't only that moment. As they spent more and more time together, her desire for Erik increased to a point where it was difficult for her to not touch him. She forced situations where he could touch her – slouching a bit, so he would adjust her stance - pressing one hand against the small of her back, the other against her abdomen to straighten her up, thus opening her lungs to capture more breath. Or tucking in her chin, so that he would lift it gently with an elegant finger, explaining that she needed to open up her throat.

His tall, thin but muscular body dressed in the ever-present tailcoat thrilled her. Trousers perfectly tailored to his muscular thighs. High collared, pure white shirts, so proper with perfectly knotted white ties. Her thoughts always strayed to what those elegant clothes were concealing.

When he tore off his jacket after releasing Raoul, she wanted to return to his arms and feel them through the thin fabric of his soft cotton shirt, the obstructive nature of one layer of fabric gone. His scent was a heady blend of a smoky spice she couldn't identify, Castile soap and his own musk.

She blushes. Is she is one of those fairy-tale princesses awakened by the kiss of a handsome prince?

Observing him now, in his element of teaching – comfortable in this environment – the only thing she is aware of is his heart. His beautiful heart.

She is aware that this is true with all people, often those considered the most beautiful become, to one's mind, truly ugly because of their inner darkness. Once you know a person's heart, the face becomes incidental.

Earlier, she told him that his soul was ugly and it was – all his jealousy and rage created a true monster. Even without his deformity, people would shun him – she has no doubt. There are still dark chambers within him; they will make their presence known at times in the future, opening at, possibly inopportune times, to reveal old injuries. Even with that understanding, she is aware that she is witness to his metamorphosis and is willing to take her chances. Her own heart leaps in pure happiness that she chose has she did.

* * *

Christine shifts her focus back to Erik's voice, as beautiful in speech as in singing, as he expounds on the differences between this new home and the old one. A home that has become a part of the past they both hope to leave behind.

"That other space had been created without thought to future innovations – my grievous error. Being an architect and builder, I should have foreseen the advances in lighting and heating. Elements so important to comfort. Much of the rationale for introducing these tunnels was to allow workers access to the entire body of the building for additions or repairs."

"You designed and built the Opera House? I thought it was Charles Garnier."

He sniffs and rolls his eyes to suggest that this is a minor point. "I assisted," he concedes. "He had won the bid, I came to know of the process too late, but he took me on when he saw my drawings and we enjoyed the project, although it aged both of us," he laughs. "With Charles it was more obvious – he didn't have the benefit of a mask to hide his wrinkles or a wig to disguise his graying hair.

"The tunnels were my concept, actually." Erik lifts his chin in pride. His sallow complexion actually brightens at his revelation. "The idea to build a house, now two houses, within the tunnels came about when I felt that this would be the only safe place for me."

He stops abruptly: why am I talking so much? I'm blabbering on like a child. He risks looking at her from the corner of his eye. She appears not to mind. She is actually beaming at him. He relaxes.

It occurs to him that he is happy. Is this what happiness feels like? Buoyant and void of the dread he carried with him throughout his life.

"I have been rambling, my dear. It is quite unlike me, as you well know." He ducks his head in apology. "You are once again the most admirable of women, providing me such an audience. One I sincerely doubt I deserve."

Christine's face fills with admiration and a glorious smile exposing her perfectly straight teeth. "I don't know what I thought when you brought me down to your, uh, home for the first time." She chuckles. "I guess I didn't think anything at all. Why wouldn't my Angel of Music have a home that he himself built beneath the Opera House – where else would he live?" Her chuckles rise to light laughter.

"How… why did you even think to create all of this? The other house was fine – better than some places where I lived with my father?" She indicates the room with her arm turning in a wide circle to indicate her amazement.

"The other place was too vulnerable. Did you think that I would allow those creatures to capture us and find us, my dear?"

"Us?" Christine was confused. "How did you know I would come with you?" Her eyes narrow. She only became secure in her feelings about him tonight. Even now, there was so much of his past still unknown. So much of his present was, in truth, still terrifying. His rage could be deadly. A wave of apprehension overtakes her and she puts a hand to her stomach to quell the fear she feels rising there.

"I, uh, did not actually know," he sputters. "I spoke in jest. It appears my attempt at humor has fallen short." Her pallor suggests he tread softly. The tone of her voice is both frightened and offended. He always hoped she would somehow come to live with him of her own volition, but never quite believed it would happen.

Tonight was a miracle.

She chose him of her own free will. His ideas about coercion using that fool Raoul proved to be horribly, horribly wrong and almost cost him her presence in his life, forget any ideas about love. He never felt confident of her, the level of their relationship deepened – the sexual tension between them was apparent to him, whether she was aware of it or not – still not to the point where he believed she would ever accept him as a suitor. The last conversation that he overheard between her and the boy convinced him that she would leave him forever. He could not allow that to happen. Thus, the scheme to kidnap her yet again and make her love him – somehow, someway.

"If not in 'jest', then what? This house was a dream of yours; that is clear. Was this just for me? The care in the furnishings is quite remarkable. I remember the settee and the sideboard, but the rest of this is unfamiliar. It's quite beautiful, Erik."

She strolls around the large sitting room, taking it all in. She runs her fingers gently over the keys of the piano – an upright, but elegant in a homely way. A royal blue velvet shawl with rose fringe is draped gracefully across the top – a bowl of cut gardenias float in a gilded ceramic bowl. She leans over to breathe in their seductive fragrance.

The walls are papered with a soft rose-colored fabric. One would think they were above ground for all the airiness abounding. Two matching armchairs, upholstered in deep blue brocade slightly darker than the shawl, with mother-of-pearl inlays following the flow of the wooden arms, sit on either side of a faux fireplace that houses a gas heater. Several patterned wool rugs in various shades of burgundy, gold and blue cover the wooden floor. The colors are dark, but soothing and cozy. None of the furniture appears to be new. It is kindly worn. She smiles at the description her mother often used about the furnishings of her childhood home.

Erik bends his head and looks up at her like a small child caught stealing cookies. This is so awkward – worse because he just now realizes he is without his mask and wig; the remnants of Christine's wedding dress are still stuffed in his waistcoat. So caught up in her admiring his work, he became completely oblivious to his state of dishabille.

With a deep sigh, he blurts out, "I hoped you would come. You were not the sole reason for this abode. As I was attempting to express earlier, I wanted a real home – for myself. I was concerned about my health living there – the dampness was getting worse. The original insulation was failing…" He stops himself from giving another lecture.

"The timing, however, was directly related to you," he admits. "I was going to bring you here after you completed your song. I would come from backstage and release a smoke bomb. That would provide a distraction. I would then release the trap door beneath us and, voila, we would disappear."

"You were going to kidnap me _again_? Why?" She turns away from the piano, plops down on the settee, rests her arm leisurely along the back stroking the scarlet velvet, and crosses her legs.

Erik purses his lips. She's imitating me now. She's having fun with me. His face burns, partly shame, partly anger.

"You were planning to run away with that boy," he growls. He turns away from her, squeezing his eyes shut. Don't cry, he says to himself, just don't cry, not now. His mortification would be complete with the addition of tears.

"Take those things out of your waistcoat and straighten yourself out. I know you are feeling foolish and I don't want that for you, however much you deserve it."

Erik complies. He is not certain if he likes this turn of events, but at least she isn't angry. He pulls out the bustle and train of the silk gown along with the veil from his vest, looking around for a place to put them.

Christine holds out her hands. "Give them to me, I'll deal with them and the gown later." She folds the silk and lace and places the pile next to her on the settee. "Well, as you can see. I did not leave with Raoul, although I admit that I did consider it. Even with your vast array of, shall we say personality flaws, I could not leave you. Our kisses only confirmed what was already decided" She stares at him. "You might have asked."

She sits up and presses her forefinger against her lips. "Now, about this kidnapping – I would finish the song, you would to open the trap door and we would drop down into a dark hole…" The forefinger points down to illustrate the fall. "And land on what? The hard floor?" Her eyes question him.

Erik temper flares, where did this woman come from? His old Christine never challenged him like this. Is this how women spoke to the men they loved? Can she can love him, but be so, so disrespectful? Can she love him at all? The earlier blush of pride becomes a full flush of color. "Do you think me that foolish? That I would endanger both of us in that way?" He roars.

Christine raises an eyebrow, expectant.

"There was a device I created – four poles with a large square net attached to catch us. A rope ladder was attached to one side so that we could climb down from the net. It was centered beneath a trap at the far end of the stage that wasn't being used during the performance, so no workmen would see the contraption. One of the tunnel entrances was close by."

The words come out so fast he is breathless, but still able to glare at her. Even to his own ears, he sounds petulant.

She picks at the embroidery on the skirt of her gown, not looking at him. "Did you test it?"

Eyes still full of hurt and anger, he responds curtly, "Of course I tested it."

She continues to fuss with her skirt. "Did you bounce?"

"Bounce?" He furrows his brow.

She looks up at him and leans forward, propping her elbow on her knee, holding her chin in her hand. "Yes, bounce. When you fell into the net did you bounce?"

What? Is she simply mad? "Yes, I suppose I _bounced_ as you call it."

Her eyes are bright aquamarines. "Was it fun? It sounds like it was such fun."

"Fun? I was testing a device to use after I kidnapped you. What are you saying about fun?"

She shakes her head and smiles. "My sweet angel."

"Are you making fun of me?"

"Yes." She falls back onto the settee, flinging out her arms so they land on the back of the sofa and giggles. She quickly returns to her upright position and scoots forward, her excitement is palpable. "Can we go back to the theater so I can try it, too?"

There is a glimmer of light in his eyes, the suggestion of a smile that doesn't quite meet his mouth. "I'm not sure that would be wise, my dear. Perhaps at a later time."

Her face falls. "I suppose you are right, but we could sneak out at night."

He's relieved for what he finally realizes is levity. This playful cajoling is something he must learn. Christine appears to be very proficient at it. His life has taught him so much, but never how to have fun, as she calls it. This happiness business is a bit of work, he's discovering.

Still, he must put that aside for another time. One thing that his life has forced upon him is that you cannot avoid the realities of how cruel and vicious the world, and the people in it, can be.

His darling Christine finds succor in her fantasies. He preyed on her innocence in that regard, so no one will ever be more aware of her gullibility than he. There is no way he will allow himself to follow that path with her now.

He understands that her cavalier manner about their circumstances suggests she doesn't want to deal with the realities of this fateful night. He can hardly blame her, nevertheless he must reveal the entire story; she will not likely be as pleased with what is to come next. He is slowly realizing that this situation is not as cut and dried as his own fantasies suggested.

His face hardens.

The change in his demeanor has her respond in kind. "What is it, Erik?" Concern fills her lovely face and the pale green eyes darken.

He sits in one of the arm chairs and steeples his hands. He cannot meet her eyes. He reaches up to adjust his mask, abruptly realizing that he is without one. Damn, he needs the security of that piece of porcelain – even one of his cloth masks would be better than this exposure. "Could you excuse me for a moment?"

"Why?"

"I need to put on my mask." It is a plea.

"No."

"Doesn't my face disturb you?"

"Am I behaving as though it disturbs me?"

He sighs, resigned to this uncomfortable position. At least this time, the person controlling him is benign – beloved, in fact.

"I plotted with Adele Giry to have Raoul find us in the music room. How do you suppose he found us so easily? And safely, I might add?" He queries.

Christine shrugs. "I'd not even thought about it."

"She befriended him months ago, at my request. I told her I wanted to speak to him and, yes, I advised her that it dealt with your making a choice between us."

"Mme. Giry, I don't understand." She tenses, her posture straight as an arrow.

* * *

This night is so strange, something out of a story book, but it is real.

She finds she does not want to know what Erik has been about. Her eyes dart around looking for someplace to hide. That is simply foolish. This is not a game of hide and seek. For a moment, when they first arrived at what would likely be her home for some time, she hoped to forget what brought them to this point.

She only wishes to love him freely and without judgment, but there is no magic that can make the past disappear, however she might wish it to be so.

Her mind drifts to memories of her mother. Strange, she generally tends to recall her father's counsel – Mamma is such a distant memory. Christine was just six when Rebecca died. Still, so many of the words of the dying mother to her young daughter flood her mind tonight.

Rebecca Daae lay against the headboard of the double bed that she had shared with Gustave for seven joyous years. They had married despite her father's objections.

" _How can he provide for you with a violin? You are used to more. Things he cannot give you."_

Those things had not mattered. Gustave's music and, more importantly, his love and how she felt about herself when she was with him, advised her decision.

Their Christine had been born soon after and the little family was complete. The child had been graced with her father's gift of music. Even at her young age, Rebecca could hear the beauty of a voice that would only improve as the she grew older.

Sadly, she knew would never hear that mature voice. She had become increasingly weak these past few years and was soon coughing up blood. Tuberculosis. She and Gustave had cried together, then did all they could to keep her as strong as possible, but ultimately the wasting proved to be stronger.

Her head was propped up by two large down pillows covered in embroidered linen. The pillow cases and a bright afghan crocheted with yarn in shades of yellow and blue were her own creations.

She had loved sewing and knitting and crocheting; the small cottage was filled with her handiwork, along with cupboards of sweaters and caps and socks for all of them. It never got truly warm in Sweden, so blankets and warm clothing were always in demand.

Her long blonde hair was captured in a pair of thick braids that framed her sallow face. Once full with cheeks flushed pink as if she were always in a state of embarrassment, Gustave could never resist pinching them and making her giggle. The disease that wracked her still young body, had aged her and her once vibrant face was pale and haggard.

Christine had crept into her mother's room and pulled up a stool to sit next her bed. She took her mother's small hand in her even smaller one.

" _Mamma, Pappa is so sad."_ The girl's green eyes were full of concern.

" _Yes, he is missing me even before I am completely gone from him."_ Rebecca responded with a sad smile.

" _But you can still talk to me and to him. You are still my Mamma. You are still his alskling."_ Christine insisted.

" _Hjartat, a woman must be a helpmeet to her husband as well as lover. Men so desperately need friends. Their hearts may be full of love, but they so seldom know how to share that love. Yes, I am still his darling and friend, but not as before._ "

Christine rested her chestnut curls on her mother's lap. _"Can I be his helpmeet, Mamma?"_

" _No. You are his daughter and must love him in that way. That is what you are required to do. His purpose is to be your father and raise you. You will know when it's time to be a helpmeet. When you grow up to be a woman, you will meet a man whose love means more to you than anything else in the world."_

" _Then I can be a helpmeet?"_ The little girl found the idea very appealing. Not now, not with her pappa, but someday.

Rebecca smoothed her daughter's hair and smiled down on the beautiful child. _"Yes, then you can be a helpmeet. It is a most beautiful thing."_

* * *

The thoughts of her dead mother fade as she listens to what Erik has to share about the woman, the ballet mistress, who treats her as much like a daughter as her own child, Meg. The idea of Mme. Giry having a strong connection to Erik is somewhat remarkable, something she would never imagine had he not brought up her name.

"How is Mme. Giry involved in this?"

"She knew of my feelings for you and warned me to take care. She is quite the mother hen and you are her chick, whatever your actual birth circumstances were." A rueful smile crosses his lips. "She is my friend, Christine. One of the few I've known." He looks at her to see that she understands what he is saying.

Christine nods. "Go on."

"She remembered me from years past."

* * *

"M. Saint-Rien, excuse me, sir."

Erik looked up from his drawings. They were just completing the final mechanical designs before mounting the crystal chandelier in the main auditorium when a formidable lady dressed in black faille, a small veiled black bonnet on her head, approached him. She was incredibly thin – not terribly tall, but carried herself with such dignity and pride, that one had to listen to her. Her face was made up of sharp edges, but was beautiful in its gauntness. She reminded him of himself, truth be told.

"Madame?"

"My name is Adele Giry. I am… was a dancer here at the old Opera House before the siege and now teach the ballet."

I was confused. "I am an architect, madame, I have nothing to do with the hiring here."

"No, no, I'm sorry. Thankfully, I have secured employment here, thank you." She was struggling, he could see that.

"Please. Sit." He indicated the chair opposite him at his worktable. For the life of him, he couldn't understand why he was feeling sympathetic, even cordial to this strange woman who was interrupting his work, but he was intrigued.

People seldom approached him unless they absolutely had to. The mask coving half of his face was off-putting, he supposed. He had his masks made of the finest porcelain to create the handsomest illusion possible, but most wondered why he wore the mask at all. Best they not know had been his experience.

Erik's feelings were mixed about that. After all these years he wanted to be able to communicate with others, but he didn't know how. Perhaps this was a start. She would be working here. He would be living here – of course, no one knew that. Still close quarters could bring about a friendship of sorts. He was surprised at the emotions being stirred up by this stranger. Community had never been at the top of his list of desires.

"Thank you." She sat down in the offered chair and put her purse on her lap and kept her stick at her side. "I do not wish to insult or embarrass you, monsieur."

His ears perked up, he squinted his eyes. "Why would that happen?"

"I am a stranger approaching you to relate a story and to ask a question that may have nothing to do with you. This might be considered impertinent." She gave him a grim smile _._ "You wear a mask. They say, the people who work here, that you are also a musical genius – some have heard you sing and play when most have gone home."

He hadn't been aware of that. People spying on him. He examined her face. No, he supposed not, just the watchmen, no doubt, gossiping among themselves. Still he made a mental note to be more careful about his activities.

"Yes, that is so. I don't know about genius, but music is very important to me. This opera house is very important to me."

Mme. Giry cleared her throat and began to tell her tale _._ "It was perhaps 35 years ago, more or less, I was a young dancer. A friend and I were at the Bois de Bologne – there was a traveling fair and we thought it might be fun to walk around."

Erik stiffened. Every nerve in his body was alert. Without his being aware, his hands clenched around the plans.

Her dark eyes reflected a deep sympathy, something he had seldom experienced – in truth, only a few times during his life. "We heard singing. It was the most heavenly sound. Never in our years with the opera had we ever heard such a sound."

Erik struggled to maintain his composure. He was oblivious to the crushed plans he was holding.

Adele turned from his gaze and looked into the past.

"We ran to find the person who was creating this wonderful music. Our hearts stopped when we saw a boy, a young boy with a face that was deeply deformed, sitting on the floor of a metal cage glaring at the crowd and singing with the voice of an angel. How did one reconcile this conflict?

"I wanted desperately to do something to help him, but my friend insisted we leave."

" _There is nothing we can do, Adele. He is a freak. This is what becomes of freaks."_

" _How can you say that? He is a child. A child with a gift locked in a cage, for God's sake, Yvette."_

" _What do you think you can do? He makes money for them. They house him. Do you want to buy him?"_

I slapped her. Hard. Stunned, she cursed me and ran away.

" _I can be kind. For a moment, I can be kind."_

"I had a small meringue and a bit of chocolate left over from our luncheon. I brought the treats to the boy. He was chained, so could not take it from my hands. He allowed me to feed him the bits of food. Then I, too, ran. I couldn't bear to look into his eyes – amber eyes. So I ran like a coward."

She closed her eyes for a moment, to clear the memory, then turned again to face Erik. "I have prayed for him every night since that day."

Erik raised an eyebrow, touched the edge of his mask, and looked directly at her.

"Yes, I thought so." She gave him the briefest of smiles, a smile so sad that he felt sorry for her.

"You left before I could thank you." He looked down and saw the crumpled plans. He set about smoothing them to regain his composure.

"Had you returned a few months later, you would have seen my circumstances had improved somewhat. I was allowed to sing from a coffin fully dressed in a cutaway – with my mask on. I only had to remove it at the end of the performance to suitably scare the 'customers' into sacrificing more of their coins to the gypsies."

"Did you escape?"

"After a time, not immediately. The treatment from the gypsies had become more agreeable – the conditions were not quite so terrible as what you had seen. But, then the situation had altered yet again and I took my leave."

Adele nodded, she would not press him further. The amber eyes told her she would learn nothing more. "I am so very happy to see that your 'circumstances' have improved beyond those to which you refer, monsieur."

"Indeed they have, madame, but not without a price, n'est-ce pas?"

"As with most things in life."

"May I buy you a coffee or tea? And a meringue?"

"That would be lovely. I would very much like a coffee. And would especially enjoy a meringue."

* * *

Tears flood Christine's eyes. She rises from the settee and perches on the arm of the chair where Erik sits, eyes closed, his head resting against its back.

"So, you asked Mme. Giry to send Raoul down to the music room to talk?"

Her close presence rouses him. "Yes. I was not aware that there would be an army of police following him. At some distance, thankfully. I suspect that Adele had a hand in that. Creating some diversion."

"The diversion likely came from the police finding Piangi on the floor backstage. He had a noose around his neck." Christine said softly.

"What? Piangi dead?" Erik bolts from his chair. "How can he be dead?"

"Raoul did not say he was dead, simply that they found him with the noose. I didn't press him. I didn't want to know." Christine trembles in fear at his outburst. She jams her eyes shut and hugs her body with shaking hands, rocking slowly to comfort herself.

"That fool. I told him to be still and just stand there." He paces the floor, hands pressing against his scarred face. "No," he cries and falls to the floor. "I should not have made him stand. He must have fainted. The noose was not even tight. I had left a long piece of rope at the end and looped it over a hook. I only wanted to frighten him. I only wanted to sing with you. No one was supposed to get hurt."

" _Helpmeet."_

The word sounds in her mind. Christine swallows her fear, she kneels on the floor beside Erik and rubs his back to temper the sobs that wrack his body.

He turns his head, a puzzled look on his face. "How can you stay with me when you think I murdered a man?"

"Because I don't think that you murdered him. Perhaps he just fainted as you said. Perhaps he isn't dead at all. We don't know." She strokes the thinning hair on his head, twisting the strands around her fingers, then smoothing them out. "We really need to do something with this hair of yours," she comments absently.

He twists his head away from her. "I'm afraid that it will take more than fixing my hair to alter anything significantly." He rises from the floor and walks away from her. "We are talking about the possibility of a man dying because of me and you talk about my hair."

"I was trying to take your… no, _my_ mind off of him. I don't want to think about the world up there. It is full of hate." she cries. "I trusted Raoul and I wound up betraying you. I'm sorry I didn't tell you earlier about Piangi. All I could think of was being with you, making sure that you were not hurt."

"We will find out what happened. From what you say, he is likely injured at most."

He nods. "Yes, we must find out. Harmless fool. What a mess I've made of things."

"No, I am to blame. None of this would have happened were I less a coward about my feelings. I was just so unsure."

Erik's fists his hands and pushes them against his temples. His pacing is erratic and he stumbles.  
"Too much, this is too much. I must get out of this room."

Christine rushes to him. "Please sit down." She guides him back to the armchair and helps him sit. "I'm so sorry. I have hurt you so much." She brushes her hand against his cheek, then risks touching the ridge on his head again.

He flinches.

"Did I hurt you?"

"No. Yes. No. Please stop touching me. Please. For now." He realizes what he is saying, but the emotion is so intense, he feels as though he will combust from her apologies and her kindness. Her love.

"This is a bit much for me. I am unfamiliar with human touch that means to soothe." His eyes plead with her. "I do not understand gentleness in word or deed and do not mean to offend you, my dear."

Regaining some composure, he explains, "There are times when I feel some discomfort in the area of my head that you were touching." He indicates the sharp ridge in his skull at the crown of his head.

"I did not know, I only wanted to give you comfort."

"You truly did not hurt me, as I said, however, I do tend to have severe pain in that area on occasion. I suspect my skull was fractured at some point and wasn't tended to properly." A bitter laugh escapes him. With all that is going on with the appearance of my head in general, one more rift doesn't really matter, does it?"

She returns to her place beside him on the arm of the chair. She risks caressing his head again. "May I?"

He sighs and relaxes into her touch.

"Do you recall when it happened?"

"No." The response is dull.

"When you were a child?" she presses.

His eyes, when he looks up at her, are unreadable – however, the darkness was deeper than she had ever seen there. Whatever the pain, it continues to smolder deep within. Yet he responds, "Apparently, right after I was born. The mask wasn't enough for her, I suppose."

Christine pulls him to her breast, holding him close to her so that he may never suffer again.

He rejects her embrace, stands and walks across the room, as far away as he can get from the love he wants, but still refuses to accept. "Please, don't. I am not sure I can bear your pity."

Christine follows him, grabs him by the shoulders and turns him to face her. "I do not pity you. I love you. I hate that she damaged you so, that you cannot even conceive that people might love you."

He struggles to get away from her. "People? What people?"

She refuses to release him. "Me, Adele. We love you, difficult as you make that sometimes."

"I don't mean to."

"Yes, you do. I think you enjoy being difficult."

"Christine? That is simply not true."

"It is," she insists. It's your way to escape dealing with things you don't want to confront – even if it means, or especially if it means, feeling good. You get into your head that you are somehow unworthy of love, so you make yourself unlovable just to prove that you are right."

He is dumbfounded. Is that true? He ponders the idea and looks at her in amazement. "I believe that you might be correct, my dear."

She rolls her eyes and shakes her head. She takes him by the hand and walks him back to the settee where she can sit beside him. She pushes the folded fabric to the floor and then pushes him down and sits next to him.

"I am so uncertain of myself, my dear. I am so unused to being with anyone for more than a few minutes at a time. This intimacy is quite intimidating." He turns to look at her, his eyes soft. "I do not believe that I have ever talked quite so much in my life. I know that I have never been touched so kindly. All the communication and affection that my life has lacked seems to be converging on me all at once tonight."

"I suppose I am receiving the benefit of all that no longer repressed silence. You do seem to have much to say. Besides, what did you expect? That we would sing all the time?" She smiles at him. "You always plan everything so thoroughly, but you never considered what it would be like to simply be with someone who loves you? Why, we spent many quiet times together?"

"But you always left. I never really believed you would return unless I threatened you."

"Oh, Erik." She presses her fist to her mouth, covering the laugh that threatens to explode. "I have to admit that this isn't exactly what I thought I would be doing on my wedding night."

"This isn't our wedding night, my dear."

"Well, we are cohabiting."

"Yes, that, we are."

"So now you must continue with your story about how we came to be in this state." She enfolds his left hand in both of hers.

Her words are light, but he senses a darker undertone. He was hoping that she had forgotten. Silly man, she forgets nothing. Nadir said something to him in that regard: _Two things to remember about a woman. She will forget nothing, but she will forgive anything if you take care of her needs in the bedroom before you sate yourself._ He sincerely hopes that he will be allowed to test the second part of Nadir's advice once he confesses his sins to this woman who owns his soul.

There is something to the Catholic sacrament of Confession, he thinks. As difficult as this has been, he is feeling amazingly unencumbered by talking to Christine in this way. She truly is an angel.

"Things happened in much the way that I had planned it with Adele. A bit messier, I must agree." He laughs bitterly. "That's why there were no alarms prior to Raoul's arrival. I disabled all the traps so that he could find us in the music room."

"Would you have killed him?" Her fingers never stop stroking his hand.

"I wanted him dead." He faces her, their faces so close she can feel his breath, scented with a vague hint of lemon and honey, remnants of his pre-performance tea. "I didn't think you would ever want me so long as he was alive. When you kissed me, I knew that I couldn't hurt him. I had to release you – both of you."

Christine bends into him and brings their entwined hands to her lips. Erik kisses her on the forehead. "I knew that you wouldn't kill him. I suspect that Mme. Giry knew that as well. I sincerely doubt that she would have knowingly told Raoul how to find your home if she believed you would murder him." She relaxes into the couch, then gives him a loving slap on his hand. "Besides, what sort of obtuse logic had you think that I would love _you_ if you killed _him_? You must really keep to planning things that you know something about."

Erik is stunned. She's making jokes about the deep hatred he felt for Raoul, deep enough to want to kill him. She has forgiven him. Where does that purity of soul and mind come from? He is awestruck.

"Erik, you didn't kill him – that is the important thing. You think you are such a hateful creature because of your past. It was a horrible past, but it is just that. You are not a killer."

"You have changed me."

"Perhaps, but I believe that you changed yourself. Nevertheless, there is still a mob searching for you and that is something we need to be concerned about."

"This place is secure. There are provisions to last a month at least."

"Does anyone else know of this place?"

Erik nods. "Nadir and his servant Darius. They helped me move some things from the music room. Sadly we couldn't take the organ. The other furnishings are from my mother's home. I brought them here when she died and just stored them. I had no need of a houseful of furniture and old memories."

"Not Mme. Giry?"

"No. She cannot tell what she does not know. She must be protected. They will suspect that she helped me – has helped me."

"Will this ever be done? Will these sins ever be expiated?" he asks, knowing she has no answer.

She shakes her head. "I don't know, I hope they will. We will handle them together." She takes his face in her hands and kisses him gently on his ill-formed lips. Pulling back, she smiles into his eyes.

"You are my salvation." He says aloud. In his heart he wonders what he has done to this young woman. Still so much a child, but determined to be strong for him. Decades of pain and rejection to be rewarded with such beauty. It is more than his poor brain can digest at this moment.

"If that is to be the case, then I need to feed you. There are provisions you say?"

"You can cook? You never cooked for me before."

"You were already in love with me, I didn't have to." Her laugh is light, but her eyes lack the sparkle of her words.

"I'm sorry."

"Yes, me, too, that I didn't let you know of my feelings sooner." She touches his cheek and he turns his head to kiss her palm. "So did you bring my clothes?"

"Yes, yes, of course. I think we both must change out of these things." He gently touches the skirt of the wedding gown, then fingers a bit of the lace edging along the bottom of the bodice.

"It is beautiful."

"Was."

"Let me be the judge of that. I am not unhandy with a needle and thread. Now where am I to change?"

He leads her to door to the left of the entry and opens it. Her old bedroom reborn, she recognizes the plain headboard of her bed, but a canopy has been added, dressed with hangings of pale blue brocade embroidered with pink roses. The antique carved armoire stands in one corner and a dressing table displaying a silver-backed brush and comb lined up neatly alongside three silver boxes sits against another wall. She notes that the fourth wall holds a door that likely leads to her bathroom.

"My room is over there." He nods to a door at the other end of the sitting room.

"So we are to sleep separately? Like nobles?" She teases.

"We are not yet wed, my dear, I would not wish to compromise your honor."

His tone is so serious that she bursts out laughing. "You kidnap me, dress me in a wedding gown and bring me to a secret house under the ground and now you speak of my honor, you silly thing."

He opens his mouth to say something, but can't think of what to say. He can only look at her questioning what she intends.

"Let's change our clothes and have some dinner, then see where the rest of the night takes us."

"Of course, my dear. Whatever you say." Silly thing?

The alarm rings.


	4. Masks

FRIENDSHIP

"Have you completely lost your mind?" The daroga shouts before Erik has the door completely open. His white bow tie has come undone and his cotton shirt is coming untucked from his trousers. The black tailcoat is European, a bit tight on the once muscular body that is becoming softer with age. The only remnant of his Perisan heritage evident in his clothing being his most prized silk embroidered dervish hat sitting askew his black wavy hair.

"Greetings to you, as well, Nadir. I see that the sandbag did not miss you entirely. You are losing your touch in avoiding my traps." He straightens the daroga's hat. "Wearing your finest tonight – no astrakhan?" Erik comments drily. "Please do come in."

The daroga pushes the door to give himself enough room to pass in front of Erik, who closes the door behind them. "You realize that if you stopped shadowing me, you wouldn't have to fear my traps."

"Indeed I would not, but where would I find any excitement in my pedestrian life? Tonight being one example of such entertainment." Nadir grunts. "Besides, the sandbag did miss."

"Yes," Erik responds.

"Yes, what?"

"Yes, I believe I have completely lost my mind."

Nadir pauses a moment to take in the confession that he just heard. "Is that so?"

"Come." Erik leads him back to the new apartment. Nadir is familiar with the dark passageway. From this entry on the La Rue Scribe, one follow the tunnel past the third alcove, then continues to the right instead of left. Two more alcoves, press the levered door at the upper right hand corner. "I did not disable the traps from this entry. Was that you earlier, setting off the alarm?"

"Of course – who else after what happened tonight above ground. There was pure chaos in the auditorium. Attempting to reach you through the tunnels was out of the question, so I came here. Thankfully, I know enough about your tricks to withhold entry until the trap has been sprung."

They enter the small kitchen. Erik kept the design simple – a cast iron stove takes up most of one wall. Unlike many homes, all the necessities are located in this one room. The stone sink, set into a long wooden cabinet with a zinc countertop that serves as the larder, stands against the wall adjacent to the range. Other assorted wooden cupboards hold dishes and cutlery. Erik obsessive behavior reaches everything in his life; his kitchen would be no different – immaculate, and everything in its place.

Nadir helps himself a glass of water from a crystal pitcher that sits on the wooden table in the center of the room. He drinks deeply. Erik offers him a linen napkin to wipe a brow shining with perspiration. Nadir takes the cloth and blots his forehead. "Thank you."

Erik allows a small smile as he observes his friend. Even in situations of extreme danger, Nadir has always been conversational and warm – deferential, even though he generally held positions of authority. He both hates and admires these traits – for the same reason: he himself does not possess them.

"There I was enjoying your beautiful opera. All the passion for all those years finally being presented to the world. It was glorious – your Christine was amazing. I was so proud of you – so happy for you." His look turns hard. "Then I heard your voice. Yours, not that of the usual tenor - Piangi. Beauty that the Italian could never hope to achieve. It was spellbinding. But, of course, you wrote this for yourself."

He shakes off his diversion. "The girl knew it, too. Anyone could see it on her face, had they been paying attention. It was the strangest thing. She seemed so torn. She wanted it to be you, but she was afraid. Her demeanor had changed from the earlier aria. The singing was glorious – perhaps the most amazing anyone had ever heard in that hall. The…the passion between you was palpable. I was almost embarrassed watching." He gives Erik a sheepish smile. "What can I say, I am a man." He shrugs.

"Then she pulled off the shroud and there you were for all to see. Most in the audience were not disturbed, it was an unfamiliar opera and they believed Don Juan was simply wearing another disguise. It was when she removed the mask that all hell broke loose. "

Erik leans against the larder. He shrugs "I had to sing with her," he says softly. "As you say, I wrote the song for us, but was terrified to do it here – when we were alone. Strong as my desire may be, I would never abuse her. It was hardly safe singing on stage, as you yourself pointed out."

"Why did she unmask you?"

"Love. Christine always acts from love. The man she believed that she loved, the young Vicomte, told…asked her to."

"But she's here with _you_?" Nadir shakes his head in confusion.

Erik nods.

"Where?"

"Here. I'm here in the parlor." Christine responds. She rises from the settee. The two men are barely into the room when she rushes past Nadir into Erik's arms. "I was so worried. Please don't leave me alone like that again. "

"It's all right." He presses his cheek against her head, taking her by the shoulders, he turns her around to face the dark-skinned Persian. "My dear, may I introduce my dear friend, Nadir Khan, former Daroga, uh Sheriff of Mazendaran province, Persia."

"Monsieur."

* * *

Nadir is flummoxed at the presence of Christine – dressed in a wedding gown – holding on to Erik for dear life after literally exposing him to the world and endangering his life in the process. He _has_ lost his mind – or I have.

"Nadir – Mlle. Christine Daee." Nadir bows slightly. She is as lovely as Erik said. Her eyes are particularly striking – clear blue-green like the purest aquamarines. More precious than diamonds in many parts of the world. He could easily fall into those depths and drown.

He has, of course, seen her on stage. His love of Opera grew during his time in Paris, and he seldom misses the opening of new productions. He watched her blossom and grow into a true diva. He hears Erik in her voice.

"Are you quite all right, Mam'selle?" His dark eyes shift back and forth, observing the couple.

Christine looks up at Erik. He nods.

"Tell him whatever you wish."

She touches his deformed cheek with her left hand before tucking it though Eriks's arm. "I am perfectly all right. Thank you for inquiring."

Nadir does not miss the relevance of that touch, or the ring Christine wears. One of the Shah's favorite stones if memory serves. He was partial to the darker stones – sapphires of the deepest cobalt blue and crimson rubies. The black diamond was of special significance to him. He often wore a ring similar to the one on Christine's finger. Perhaps it was the same ring – the daroga would not be a bit surprised. Erik is a master at sleight of hand. Nadir still had the precious stones that Erik gave him before leaving Persia.

If none of this were confusing enough, Erik is without his mask and seemingly not the least bit concerned about it. He has grown used to Erik's face – it was Erik's face. It would appear that Christine feels the same. She has found the man behind not only the mask, but behind the reason for the mask.

He sighs in relief. She is not being held against her will. There is no indication that she is in a state of hypnosis, or any sort of drug intoxication – a concern because Erik told him of how Christine first came to visit the music room.

"Erik said that you saved his life when he was in Persia."

Nadir exchanges a look with Erik, who says, "This appears to be a night of unraveling mysteries. If you feel comfortable with this, my friend. It might be easier for Christine to hear parts of my story from you."

Nadir has always been concerned about what might happen if Erik fell in love. He understands his passion, but also his darkness and ruthlessness. He tries to form his words to tell the story, such as he knows it, but not terrify this lovely young woman before him.

Time is also a concern. The events in the Opera House have to be addressed. Taking all these things into consideration and the role the girl would play in any further pursuit of Erik, he felt it best to take the time now. Despite the apparent love or dependency she is exhibiting towards Erik, he is not entirely comfortable with her changes of heart. Quite simply, she is very young and quite impressionable. His first responsibility is to protecting his friend as well as he can.

* * *

Erik's experiences with women, at least those Nadir was aware of, were fraught with degradation and disgust that almost always lead to death or the threat of death. The little sultana would have him bound, would arouse him, after which she performed degrading acts on his body. Her greatest stimulation occurred when watching prisoners or just commoners taken from the streets suffer within the mirrored walls of the torture chamber that Erik had designed.

The chamber was six-sided with a heating element in the ceiling. The walls were mirrors reflecting mirages – fearsome mirages of wild beasts – or beautiful mirages of water and greenery. The lighter, gentler false images would appear when the tortured being was being heated to the point of death. They offered relief from the hell that had enveloped their bodies. After discovering that any attempt to drink water from the blistering glass was useless, most would simply hang themselves. A noose was conveniently placed on a branch of the metal tree that stood in one corner of the death room to afford that release.

When Erik was given a bride. The girl refused to consummate the marriage with him. He demanded she be set free – said he rejected her – it was not she who refused him. It mattered not to the Shah, she became a victim of the chamber. Erik refused to watch her death. After that point, the little sultana wanted him dead.

These things he would not reveal.

Nadir clears his throat and begins his narrative. "I was sent to find Erik with the instruction that I bring him back to the Shah of Persia. His mystique throughout Asia was widely known, both as a magician and singer. He also had a reputation for being an efficient killer."

Christine's hand tightens on Erik's, but she doesn't allow her eyes to leave those of the daroga.

Erik indicates that she sit down and takes the place next to her, nodding for Nadir to continue.

"He also had a reputation as an architect and builder. A quite amazing man by any measure. The Shah wanted him to build a new palace – among other things."

"May I sit," Nadir asks.

"Of course – take one of the chairs," Erik indicates the armchairs on either side of the fireplace.

"At first he refused, but it was either the novelty of the idea, or my skills of persuasion…"

Erik chuckles and dispels some of the horror that Nadir is relating. Christine looks at him and relaxes at the gentle laugh.

"We left Russia and made our way back to Persia. A very long trip because he would not travel on a ship. His aversion to small enclosed spaces was something that would show itself repeatedly as we began to know one another over the passing years, I was never certain why, claustrophobia can often be hereditary." He shrugs.

Christine turns to look at Erik, then begins to speak, "Mme. Giry said…"

"No. Not now," Erik interrupts.

Nadir furrows his brow.

"I will explain later, my friend," Erik says quietly, "It has no relevance at the moment."

Nadir continues, "We ultimately arrived in Tehran and Erik went to work – both on the building of the palace and creating violent diversions to entertain the Shah. It is unnecessary to describe them for you, Mam'selle. They would simply cause pain and I suspect Erik remembers them only too well without my retelling – if not waking, then in his sleep."

Christine seeks Erik's expression, but his face is flat.

"We became friends, as much as we could and he became acquainted with my young son, Reza." This is his turn to choke back tears. "My exquisite, gentle wife, Mitra, died with our son's birth. Despite my Muslim faith allowing such, I did not take other wives during our marriage and have remained alone since her death.

"Reza became my life, but Reza was dying – we was a sickly baby and his condition never improved as he grew older. When the Shah ordered me find Erik, I was not pleased with this directive. However, any resentment I may have felt towards Erik initially, disappeared. Reza adored the masked man who taught him magic and sang to him. If anything, I was a bit jealous of their bond – from both points of view."

Nadir takes a moment to gather his thoughts. "When it was apparent that Reza had little time left, Erik suggested that he help him pass. I insisted nature to take its course; Erik advised me that nature was often unkind when it came to death. Why let the boy suffer any more than he had already.

"He made up a potion to give Reza. Gathering up my Koran, I followed him into Reza's room. After feeding him the drink, Erik held my son in his arms as he died quietly and without pain."

Christine turns to Erik. Tears fill his eyes. With a gentle squeeze of his hand, she gets up and walks over to Nadir to sit at his feet. Taking his thick hands in her delicate ones, she squeezes them. "Oh, I am so very sorry."

Nadir pats her hands gently while helping her stand, and returns her to Erik's side on the settee.

"A few events forced Erik's leave taking from Persia. His refusal to observe the death of a personal servant was the initial 'crime.' He then declined the requests to create any more tortures for the Shah's pleasure. More importantly, though, the palace was complete with all manner of hidden passages and traps. Erik was the only one besides the Shah himself who knew the secrets and for that reason alone, he had to die.

"I arrested him, but he escaped after having 'overcome' me. His 'body' was found later on the shore of the Caspian Sea. The body, in fact that of a vagrant already dead fitting his physical description, was found a few weeks later, already decomposing. No absolute identification was possible. However, he wore Erik's clothing and most importantly, a mask was found next to the head of the poor soul."

"And, you? What did the Shah do to you? He must have been very angry," Christine quizzes him.

"Yes. My property was seized and I was exiled. Good fortune, all things considered."

Nadir breathes deeply. He hopes she is satisfied with his story and doesn't insist on asking questions of explanation. There are things more pressing at the moment than Erik's past, although he fears that it may become an issue – to both of them.

Although it has been over 20 years, the Shah is still very much alive and has traveled to Europe. After his early years of struggle within his rule over the various tribes, he has become a recognized and admired leader. Still, one never knows how long a grudge might be held if he discovers that he had been betrayed. It isn't a great concern on Nadir's part, but he has learned that dismissing something on a basis of time passed can often be fatal. On a personal level, the Shah was adept at drawing and writing poetry, however, that does not preclude the idea that he might follow opera. One of his fascinations with Erik had been his voice. The daroga would keep that in mind, but, at the moment, it was not an issue on which he wanted to focus.

* * *

"In order to help both of you, but primarily to understand what Erik needs to do next, I must address the events of this evening. He returns to his seat in the armchair. "Now, may I ask about your gown?"

Erik squeezes Christine's hand. "As I told you earlier, I lost my mind or it seemed so at the time. I overheard Christine talking to Raoul about eloping tonight - after the performance. I panicked."

Tears form in his eyes as he recalls his breakdown. Nadir's recollections stir more deep-seated memories – and control becomes more and more difficult. "The thought of hearing her sing my opera, then leaving without a word – not even a good-bye, drove me mad. Literally mad. If Persia was hell, then this was worse, much worse, because I believed I had conquered those demons," he groans. "It was not in jest that I told you that I lost my mind."

He rises from the settee and gestures with his hand that she remain seated. He absently strokes his disfigurement, standing with his back to both of them. After a moment, his shoulders relax, the weight he has been carrying left behind with a decision made. He turns to face his jury.

"I wanted him dead and I wanted her to be mine. I needed to believe that she loved me; would marry me. The wedding gown was made shortly after I first saw her." He smiles down at the young woman who holds his life in her hands. The surrender is not as difficult as he thought it might be.

"When I forced you…" he begins.

Christine vigorously shakes her head. "No."

"Yes, forced you to put it on after we got back down to the music room, I felt that I had finally been made whole. You would be my bride." His voice is gruff. "What you wanted did not matter." He shudders. "I'm sorry, my dear."

To Nadir: "Nothing is entirely clear after that."

"What about Chagny?"

"I arranged with Adele to show him the way here."

"You got her involved?" The anger in his voice alerts Erik to tread softly.

"I told her I needed to speak with him about Christine. I assured her that I would not harm him. She had no reason to disbelieve me at that time – in essence it was true." He pauses. "Then she did disbelieve, I suspect, particularly after the police began shooting. You would feel the same if in the same situation – being attacked for no reason. I had done nothing at that point but sing." His eyes challenge the Persian to disagree. "In any event, she knew that the passages were safe."

His argument sounds ridiculous now, even to his ears. Pushing on, he continues. "He burst into the room demanding I let Christine go – talking about compassion. The pampered idiot telling me that I should feel compassion for him. He was wild, flailing his arms about. It was child's play to put the noose around his neck and hook him to the wall. Had he relaxed, he could have freed himself. I merely wanted him to shut up."

His eyes found Christine's – they were glistening, but no tears fell to her cheeks. She was listening, perhaps trying to understand what happened in her own mind. He was curious as to how she perceived the confrontation. Now was not the right time to find out. Maybe never would be the right time.

"Then we were all shouting at one another. My head…I was in such pain. I felt I was going to die – wanted to die, the pain was so severe.

"You did not use the Punjab lasso?" Nadir ventured.

"No. No. I wanted him dead, but I didn't want to kill him. _I wanted him dead in her heart._ Some part of my mind was still sane enough to know that." The corner of his mouth curls. "A long ago promise to a friend demanded that I not kill him."

"Nadir, what is the Punjab lasso?" Christine asks.

Erik and Nadir exchange looks. "I'm sorry," Nadir says. He is aware that he may have crossed some line, a part of the past Erik might not want her to know about.

"Not to worry, my friend. She needs to know these things if we are to be married. That she is here at all is still a mystery to me." Erik removes his tie and opens the top buttons of his shirt to reveal a deep scar that encircles his neck. He rubs the slim groove; the tight starched collars are a constant irritation and constant reminder of a time etched in his memory.

Christine cannot control a sharp intake of breath. She wonders how many other scars rake his body.

"This is where the story I told Adele on that first day takes up, my dear."

Christine's understands. She risks a glance at Nadir. His look is unreadable. She inhales deeply and prepares for Erik's story.

* * *

I was fifteen when I first took the life of another human being. The gypsy king who had captured me as a child holds that distinction. He had beaten me with a whip for years in order to control me, but all it created was more hatred. Still we came to an agreement that brought him more money and I could be clothed properly and treated me as a modicum of a human being instead of an animal. Quite simple, actually.

However, one night, whatever freedom he had allowed lost value. His lust was his undoing. He raped me repeatedly. Once sated, he passed out. I took his knife, the one he had held to my neck as he violated me, and I stabbed him to death.

All the rage that I had held in up until that time was unleashed on him. I felt free, truly free, for the first time of my life. I also felt powerful. No one would even control me in that way ever again. Then I ran.

As I ran – not sure where I was going or why, there were encounters with many others who wanted whatever they thought I might have or what I could do for them. My killing became more proficient. It was, however, still self-defense. At no time did I kill just to kill.

When I was nineteen. I became acquainted with thugee - Indian assassins who had perfected the art of murder. It was actually more than murder – that is too simple a word for what they did. For them it was a determination of sorts, a way of life and great amounts of ritual that had a mystic element to it. I was enthralled. I wanted to learn what they could teach me.

For their murders, they used a lasso made of catgut. Quick, efficient and perfectly deadly, but a tool that could be used for torture as well as death.

" _Teach me."_ They thought I was a fool. _"Teach me."_ And fool I was, I threatened them with what I believed to be my indestructibility – after all, I had survived for all these years with my strength and my wits.

In my arrogance I would take them on, one by one and they would beat me. Then I managed to kill one of them. My victory soon turned into my first lesson with the lasso.

I felt the thing as it fell over my head, light as a feather it was. Then the loop tightened, slowly, slowly, slowly. I was taken to the point of death. Suffocating by inches. My heart felt ready to burst. Then, in an instant, I was released. One of them removed the lasso and I vomited and coughed and continued that process until my heart came back to some measure of normalcy. I thought I would die. The experience showed me that I wanted to live to use this weapon, not die by it. It was horrible, but it was also beautiful. The perfect weapon. Small enough to carry in a pocket without detection. Not some bulky hunk of rope.

After that, they taught me. I had passed their test. There was the religious aspect to their organization, but I rejected that. I just wanted to learn how to use the lasso. It was the power of it that enticed me.

So, I would earn my way by being the perfect assassin. I became something of a myth. A living horror: a face from hell with the voice of an angel. The legend followed me as I traveled the world – my voice, my violin and my invincibility. Heady stuff, but I felt lost.

One day a young man, roughly my age, appeared at one of my performances. He had a message from the Shah of Persia. He had heard of me and requested my attendance. I initially refused, but the temptation was too great. I was offered riches, but what I wanted was power – nothing else was of interest to me. This seemed to be the way to achieve it.

* * *

Christine is silent. Is this his way to punish himself for bringing her down to his hell? Will she now completely turn away from him just as he began to believe she might truly want him?

Her head is lowered. Erik cannot see or read her face.

"So remnants of your sanity stopped you from killing the Vicomte?" Nadir asks. He avoids looking at Christine. He is not sure what his reaction would be, were he hearing this story for the first time. She is a young protected girl. What does she know of the evils of men and their basest desires?

"No, not exactly - she did." Erik looks past Christine into a distance that Nadir can't see, tears flood his eyes. "She kissed me. Twice. Is that not amazing, daroga? She kissed this ugly face and did not die. After that I could not kill him. I let them both go. I lost my mind, but I found my soul."

Nadir questions Christine in a voice so soft he wonders if she can hear him. She appears to be in thrall to the vision Erik created with his remembrance. "So why _are_ you still here, mam'selle, if I may inquire? You must forgive me, I am a retired law enforcement officer, so will always be full of questions.

"Our friend here has become the project of my retirement since I rediscovered him some years back. His life has always been of concern to me since I met him – you have heard the trouble he can get himself into." He hopes injecting a bit of lightness to his voice he can bring her back to the present.

"I love him." She raises her head and the tears she has been holding back, flow freely down her cheeks. "I know he is no longer that man."

"My dearest, Christine." Erik falls to his knees at her feet. "I wish I could change the past for you."

She caresses his head as she had earlier – smoothing the sparse hair, gently twirling it around her fingers.

* * *

Her thoughts stray to how she can treat his scalp with oils and massage to stimulate hair growth. She's certain that the wig has contributed to the stunting. She has seen cradle cap over the years, always in infants. It is easily cleared up, but if Erik has always worn a head covering, it would not be able to heal.

He just needs care. She only wants to care of him.

To do so, she must focus. She cannot let her mind wander as it is wont to do, as it is doing now, when challenged with difficult situations. Erik had been able to convince her that he was her Angel of Music because she was still distressed over her father's death. The Angel would be her caretaker. Would direct her life so she didn't have to be concerned about how on earth she would go on living without Pappa.

Oh, why does this have to be so difficult? Why can't they just live here and all the rest of it disappear?

" _Helpmeet."_ Christine closes her eyes. _"Yes, Mamma. He is the man I am able to help. But I'm so scared. He is so much and I feel so small."_

* * *

Embarrassed at witnessing this private act, Nadir clears his throat, "You said you didn't kill him because of your promise to me?

"You said that I could kill in self-defense – by taking Christine, he was taking my life."

"Not the same thing."

Erik stands up and straightens his clothes. "That, my friend, is a matter of opinion. Point is, I did not kill him. I have killed no one since leaving you that night in Persia – for any reason."

Christine opens her mouth to speak. She must garner every ounce of courage she possesses to hold Nadir's eyes and ask this question. Despite her love for Erik, she was truly afraid for Raoul's life tonight and if she hears the answer she fears, she is not sure what she will do. She blurts out, "I must ask. I fear that Erik is afraid to ask you, but I must – is…is Piangi dead? Raoul only told me that he was found backstage with a noose around his neck."

"He is fine. Said that he fainted." Nadir smiles at the young woman. So she's not entirely the child he believed she might be.

"You terrified him, Erik. Why the noose? Why didn't you just tell him what you wanted? He would have likely fainted anyway, but without the noose around his neck. What if he had choked?"

"Oh, thank God," Christine releases the breath she had been holding. She and Erik start laughing the giddy laughter of relief after deep fear. The specter that has been hovering over them has disappeared.

"You had best thank the gods that watch over Italians tenors – he said that he would not press charges – that you did it for love."

Bolstered by her success with asking about Piangi, she ventures to ask, "Are they going to pursue him for Buquet?"

Erik throws her a sharp look. "I did not kill Buquet. That was resolved weeks ago."

"I did not say that you did. I do not believe that you did. I only asked about whether you were being pursued." She is hurt that he has so little faith in her, but she needs these answers if she is to defend him.

"Buquet sabotaged the chandelier. I created the fittings for that chandelier, it should never have fallen. He met his death because he was persecuting me."

* * *

Buquet was on another of his missions to uncover the location of the Opera Ghost's abode.

It so happened that this was on night when Erik was checking to see if any maintenance was needed on the traps or his utility needs – plumbing, electrical cables and gas lines for his home were tied into those of the Opera House. The house workmen did not come down to the lower levels for that work – nor would he expect they would, since his use was not known to them or the managers.

It was also one of the times he had left his mask behind. All the workmen were gone and the only company he had were the rats – the true lords of the underground.

The glow of a lantern was moving perhaps 200 feet in front of him. _"Buquet,"_ he breathed, throwing his voice so that it seemed to come from Buquet's lantern.

The sound jolted the head scene-shifter.

" _Buquet-ay."_ This time the voice crept to his left ear from behind the bulky body.

Erik crept closer to the bullish man – a man with a face that could rival his own in ugliness, he thought with amusement.

" _Be careful you don't trip over those rats, Buquet. No one would ever find you down here if you should happen to have an accident."_

Erik could see the sweat forming on the other man's forehead. He held his lantern up to his face to reveal himself. Perhaps if he sees me without my mask it will discourage him from prowling around. Usually that would be enough for most people.

But Buquet did not appear to be afraid.

" _You think you are so smart. The Opera Ghost. The Phantom of the Opera. You think you can have that pretty little opera singer all nice and sweet and lush with her skin like cream and lips like ripe cherries."_

" _Never speak of Mlle. Daee in those terms."_

" _She will never have you, you ugly monster. Have you looked in a mirror lately, and I don't mean the one in the little lady's dressing room?"_ Then he laughed his vulgar laugh and said, _"Carlotta will sing to bring down the chandelier. Is that so, M. Ghost? More of your bragging. You are a worthless freak. Why pretend you are a man?"_

" _What are you saying?"_

" _You will see soon enough. Go back to your hole or wherever it is you call home. You don't frighten me."_

Buquet turned abruptly and scuttled back the way he had come.

Erik had no heart or desire to follow him. He hated the man, but had no reason to harm him. At least, not at the moment. In fact, he was somewhat of an asset – his stories kept the managers in line and the myth of the O.G. alive. He was concerned about the man's comments about Christine and the mirror, especially the mirror. Still the chandelier was the more immediate concern. He would have to check to make sure that it was stable. That obvious threat had to be acknowledged.

Buquet stopped running and caught his breath. The confrontation with Erik was more frightening than he had let on. The masked man terrified him, but he could not let him see that. His foot hit a broken brick and he stumbled.

" _What's this?"_ He pulled away the brick and several others. Before he could catch himself, he fell into a deep hole.

* * *

"His footsteps had ceased and I was concerned," Erik explained. "He was on the third level and dislodged the bricks that I had installed to cover a trap that was especially deep. He fell in accidentally and broke his neck."

"Adele and I helped him carry Buquet back through the tunnels and hanged him from one of the fly ropes," Nadir interjects.

"You helped him?"

"Yes, but not without a great deal of angst and abusive language," Erik comments, indignant. "I would have preferred they not know, but I couldn't handle him myself. He was a large…fat…man and dead weight, if you'll excuse the pun."

Nadir nods agreement. "Adele held the lantern to guide us and told us where to put him, so she could "find" him and report it to the police.

"An accident?"

"Yes. I admit that had the hole been properly filled in, he might still be alive," Erik say quietly in his defense, but his underlying anger breaks through. "He was a nosy, bloody fool and deserved what he got. It was he who destroyed the workings of the chandelier and caused it to fall."

"But you were blamed," Christine cries at the injustice.

"Yes, at first. I, as the O.G., became the foil for all manner of sloppy workmanship at the Opera House."

"Adele attested to his suicide. That was actually easier for the police to accept than him falling into a hole in the tunnels. Two of the ballet girls also confirmed that they saw him working on the chandelier the day that it fell. The story ultimately became that he hanged himself because someone was killed when the chandelier fell," Nadir continued. "I'm surprised you didn't hear that part of the story. Adele worked very hard to clear Erik's name."

Christine searches her memory. "I must confess, there are times when I'm not always aware of what is going on around me. I've been that way since I was a child, especially if it's hurtful. I was aware that Buquet had died – the chandelier fell when I was on stage, so I was especially shaken. Everyone was saying it was the…Phantom."

Her eyes grow large, prompted by a recollection, but she says nothing.

Nadir picks up on her hesitation, "Mam'selle? Is there something else you recall?"

"Just that, as Erik says," she rushes to reply. "Most all the negative events that happened were blamed on him. 'Beware the Phantom of the Opera' was always being sung – partly in jest, partly in fear. I guess I just went along with that explanation." The sadness of her look is enough for Erik to forgive her. He fails to note the look of puzzlement on her face and a bright, brief flash of anger.

Nadir does notice, but chooses to hold pursuit his tongue for now. Instead he warns both of them, "I wouldn't be so quick to feel relieved."

"What else is there? Must the persecution continue? When is this going to end?" Erik walks over to one of the armchairs and collapses into it – Christine follows him and sits on the edge of the chair. "I'm sorry, but I am exhausted. Exhausted and grateful – thank you, Nadir. I know that much of this clean-up work after me is your doing – yours and Adele's."

"Ah, yes, Adele. You may want to stock up on meringues and roses. I believe she is more upset over not knowing about this apartment than any of the other business."

"What I had told her was to happen was altered. My decision to replace Piangi was made at the last minute due to my desire to sing with Christine. I had another plan entirely."

"Yes, the rope net," he scoffs.

"Well, I thought it was clever."

"It was. No one else discovered it. I happened upon the contraption in my attempt to get down here to you."

Christine's eyes sparkle, she giggles and looks over to Erik. He is smiling, too.

Nadir notices the exchange. "What is going on here?"

"Private joke."

"You? Joking? All right. I suppose I can accept that."

"So what is the other issue?"

"The reason I was encouraged to come here tonight." Nadir sighs. "We are finally getting to it, thank goodness. The young Vicomte is insisting that Mlle. Daee is the victim of a kidnapping and demands that she be found and returned to the care of Mme. Giry, as her guardian. He also claims that you assaulted him for no reason." With a hard look at Erik, he states, "He wants you to be prosecuted."

Christine jumps up, "That's a lie."

"Did he not kidnap you?

"Well, yes, I suppose you could call it that."

"Did he not force you to wear a wedding gown and veil?"

She looks back at Erik. "Yes," barely audible.

"Did he not tell you that you had to make a choice between them?"

"Yes, yes, yes – all those things happened. Then I got over my fear and I kissed Erik and realized that I wanted to be with him. Erik told us both to leave and I followed Raoul out to the boat and told him to go without me. That I wanted to be with Erik. I know now that it is all I ever wanted. It took the 'kidnapping' as you/he is calling it to make me aware of my true feelings.

"Oh, Erik, I'm so sorry." She returns to him at the chair and falls to her knees and presses her head into his lap.

Erik touches her gently on the chestnut curls. "What do we need to do?

"She must go back with me now. That takes care of the kidnapping issue."

Erik nods sadly.

"No," cries Christine. "I don't want to go."

"Christine, my dearest girl, you must go. You will be with Adele and Meg." He turns to his old friend. "What should I do, Nadir?"

"Stay here. No one knows of my relationship to you, other than Adele. It was she who sent me here, by the way. At the moment, the young Vicomte is only speaking to her. The police want nothing to do with him. They are idiots, but smart enough to know that the young man is a troublemaker. They attacked you without just cause. If it wouldn't present even greater problems, you could probably sue him." Nadir chuckles. "Chagny told them to shoot to kill when Christine identified you – wherever you might appear. They believed you would be backstage – but, in any event, close by. This was your big night – they knew you would be in the house somewhere.

"There were and are no charges against you – just the political influence of the Vicomte, actually of Comte Phillippe. The police have their tails between their legs right now and have backed away from any more searches for the time being.

"With the return of Christine to her home…" Christine flinches at the word.

"With Christine returning to Adele's home," he amends, "things will calm down. I believe that Chagny's concern is more to do with getting her away from you than anything else. He wants to talk to you, Christine. This is what he confided to Adele."

"But will they leave Erik alone?"

Nadir snorts. He is reminded of the old days when he had someone trapped in their own lies. "Once the word gets out that the O.G. was framed and the Vicomte ordered him killed out of jealousy, Erik will be seen as a hero. Yes, he took Christine as a hostage, but released her once he made his escape." He winks at Erik. "At least that is our hope. Once again, Adele and I will come to your aid. This appears to be our purpose in old age."

"What about the dress and the noose?" Christine asks.

"What dress? What noose? Do you have the gown you wore on stage?

Christine looks at Erik.

"Yes, of course. It's in your old room where you changed." He shifts his eyes to Nadir. "Was the music room accessed?"

"No. They found the Vicomte wandering through the tunnels trying to find his way back to the upper levels of the Opera House. He managed to row back across the lake without mishap. He's very lucky you dismantled the traps. As are the police. Adele showed them the route, as she did for Raoul earlier."

Erik questions this comment, "She assisted the police?"

"She had to. She cannot appear to be conspiring with you." He continues, "Once they found Raoul, everyone returned to the upper levels. They never made it to the house."

"I'll go get the dress and the other things that were left behind," Erik says.

"No." Nadir raises a hand to stop him. "I'll get the dress and whatever else that looks appropriate." He smiles at them. "Spend some time together while I'm gone. It will have to keep you for a while – until the gossip spreads and then dies down."

He leaves the couple behind.

Christine throws herself into Erik's arms. After a moment of confusion, still not comfortable with the new intimacy in his life, he embraces her as well. They hold one another tightly, breathing as one. She takes his face in her hands and kisses him hard on his mouth, pressing into him as if she can meld their bodies with the strength of her will. The intensity of the pressure forces both of their lips open and the kiss deepens to a level beyond what they experienced earlier. All of their mutual fear and pain and love is given voice with their embrace. This kiss must truly last them however long until she can safely return to her home with him – here.

Erik is the first to break away. Both are shaken. Their eyes lock in an expression of surprise and longing. She reaches out to pull him close to her again, but he shakes his head. "You had best remove the gown so that when Nadir returns with the other, you can put it on quickly and leave." He takes her hand and leads her to the bedroom so lovingly designed for her.

He bends to give her another brief kiss, closes the door and falls back against it – blinking back the tears that threaten to unravel the composure he has fought so hard to maintain since Nadir arrived.

The daroga returns holding the silk dress. He is surprised at how heavy it is. The rich silk itself is light, but extremely dense because of the many layers of fabric and brocade overlays, the petticoats underneath and yards of lace decoration only add to the weight. He hands it over to Erik, who knocks lightly on her door. She opens it a crack and takes the dress.

He then hands Erik his tailcoat, the shroud, his wig and the red noose.

Erik tosses the clothing and noose on the settee. "The mask?"

"I could not find it."

"I left it on the organ. You are sure?"

"Yes, it was dark, but I looked carefully. This was all I could find."

"Then there _was_ someone else." His hands begin twitching. "I sensed a presence as we were leaving to come here, close, but not yet in the room. That's why I left the mask behind." He faces Nadir. "You felt no one now?"

Nadir shakes his head. "I was extremely cautious. There was no sound, even from the chair and music box sliding open– the silence was complete and the room completely dark. Had someone been hiding, they would have been startled when the trap door opened and they saw my light. When I was looking for the clothing and the mask, I walked the entire apartment with the lantern to be certain there was no one lurking. Despite what the police said, I wanted to be certain the house had not been breached."

"And yet it had. Someone came and went it would seem. Whoever it was must have entered after you set off the alarm and trap at that entrance the first time." His eyes grow distant. "You secured the trap door under the chair?"

"Yes. I also secured both entrances to the other apartment."

"Thank you. Nothing to be done now. I will reconnect the alarms and traps between these rooms and the others after you go."

"A good plan."

"What now?" he asks the daroga.

"I take Christine to Adele's. I will return later after the meeting with the principals."

"Principals?"

"I will explain later. Now we must go. Adele is waiting – this took much longer than was anticipated. I don't want to be seen with Christine on the street. It cannot be suspected that we know one another. I am simply a friend of Adele's of whom she has requested give witness to the meeting."

"This is difficult enough…"

"The Chagnys if you must know. When I arrive at Adele's she will send them a message that Christine has returned"

"Tonight? It's so late. Christine is so tired…"

Nadir raises his hand. "And they, the brothers, will come to speak with her. They insisted it be immediately upon her return."

"Interrogate her, you mean – the bastards." Erik's temper threatens to erupt.

"I will be there. It will be fine." He is not entirely sure.

Erik is not entirely certain himself. "She panics; she said as much. Whatever concerns I may have for myself, I could not bear her being damaged further in any way. If there is any sense that she wishes to be with him, let her go."

Nadir is stunned. "Are you sure. After all of this?"

"I created this; it is not her burden to bear. Whatever the outcome, tonight has filled me with more joy than I could ever have imagined for myself."

Christine re-enters the room, ending any conversation between the men. The Aminta dress could not be more becoming to her – from the shade of coral, to the way the bodice hugs her curves, to the flare of the daring short skirt revealing her calves and ankles.

Erik's face brightens. He is once again taken by the sheer beauty of this woman he so adores. "You look lovely."

Christine blushes. "It is a beautiful dress."

"Give me one of your cloaks to cover her."

"She would drown in one of my cloaks. I have something better." Erik goes to her room and returns with a dark blue cashmere hooded cape. "I had this made for you. I thought velvet at first, but this suits you better." He drapes it over Christine's shoulders and holds his hands there briefly.

She crosses her arms to squeeze his hands with hers and presses her head against his chest. She strokes the fine wool and turns to smile at him. "It's beautiful."

Nadir takes note of her left hand. "The ring."

"The ring," Erik repeats. "Yes, she cannot be wearing my ring."

Christine clutches her left hand with her right, protecting the black diamond. "No. I will not surrender my ring – even to you, Erik. I lost it once..." Her eyes plead with him.

"I will carry it for you here." Nadir indicates a pocket in his waistcoat from which he removes a simple gold band. "I carry Mitra's ring with me always, close to my heart. Your ring will share that space for a short time, if that suits you."

Erik and Christine smile their gratitude. "Yes, I would like that." She removes her ring and hands it to the daroga who tucks both rings into his pocket.

"Thank you, my friend." Erik kisses the top of Christine's head and releases her to Nadir's care.

"I wish I could say that this will be resolved entirely tonight, but I don't know how the Vicomte will deal with any of this. I believe he is concerned for you, Christine, but he hates Erik. Our saving grace is the Comte, who appears to disapprove of his young brother's choice. He will want to save face at all costs, I suspect. How he plans to do that we have yet to know.

"Now we really must go." Nadir leads her from the sitting room, back through the kitchen and into the tunnel back to La Rue Scribe.

Erik's eyes follow them as they leave, then they examine the room – her presence gave it life, now it is just a room. If he knew how to pray, he would. His faith seemed to begin and end in such a short period of time tonight. Will she ever be his wife?

He wanders into her bedroom. The wedding gown and veil are in the armoire where she carefully hung them. The bustle and train are neatly folded on a shelf. He removes the veil with its headpiece of pink and white roses from the hanger and presses the tulle to his face, breathing in the scent of her hair – lavender and vanilla.

There is a note on the dressing table.

 _My dearest Erik,_

 _Please do not cry. I am holding my tears. You are my heart, know that I will return to you and our home._

 _Your Christine_.


	5. Rings

Secrets

"How do you manage to remember of all these stairways and tunnels?" Christine asks as Nadir ushers her out of the door in the kitchen back into the labyrinth beneath the Opera House – Erik's creation. She wonders idly if there are other apartments connected to the two of which she is already aware.

"Ah, good question."

* * *

The days in Persia had been filled with much creative excitement for both men. Erik, for his part, was embarking on a new career – his father's career.

" _My father was an architect. He died just before I was born. My mother began her labor with me during his burial. She gave birth to me in the dark hours later that night."_

His words had lacked any emotion, but this was no surprise to Nadir. The masked man was not inclined to conversation, nor emotion, even his anger lacked passion. He was called a living corpse for his outward appearance, but Nadir suspected the death was more internal than external. His face was ugly, certainly, one could not deny that, but one could become accustomed to a face, however ugly. At some point, the physical disappears when you come to know someone. Nadir was curious as to what had emptied this man's soul. The unknown father would initiate an explanation if one was forthcoming.

" _Is that why this position interested you?"_ Nadir's questioned with caution. He didn't want to disturb any conversation with unwelcome prying. The silence of their journey was forcing his thoughts to Reza, which were deepening his mood. Anything the man said would be welcomed, to take his mind off of his son's condition.

" _Yes, I suppose so. It was never a role I had considered for myself – doubt I would have many clients presenting myself as I do."_

Nadir laughed. So, he had a sense of humor. Sardonic humor, but it was there nonetheless. Not so much of a monster after all. _"But you feel a desire to create buildings?_

" _It is art. I am drawn to art and to beauty – symmetry, balance. My fortune is that I have these talents. The contradiction is the vessel that contains those gifts. The gods, if they exist, certainly have a sense of irony."_

"The conversations were generally short, but our comfort with one another grew as the days passed.

"During the time Erik was working on his drawings and initiating the build itself, he was energized and it seemed that his defining anger had dissipated somewhat. That calm was often disrupted by the violent desires of the Shah and the little sultana; Erik had to walk a fine line with both of them.

"Nearing the end of the process, I was called to the Shah's private apartment. The final design was in place and the room was stunning with gold papered walls, marble floors and columns and lush velvets and brocades covered the bed and couches.

"I stood in the middle of the room, afraid to touch anything for fear of creating damage. Then, without any forewarning, the Shah was standing next to me.

" _Aha, Daroga, did I startle you?"_ he giggled like a young girl.

"I much preferred his company when he was harsh, to be frank. His laugh was obscene and sickened me."

" _Indeed you did. Very clever of you."_

" _Yes, I instructed the Architect to create a completely private entrance, several as a matter of fact, and he did."_

" _May I know how? Where the secret entrance is?_

" _Best you do not,"_ he giggled again.

" _I understand."_

"And I did. That was when I decided that Erik had to leave Persia."

* * *

"When we reacquainted here in Paris after a chance meeting – of course, nothing happens by chance, but neither of us had any idea that the other was here – we gradually became friends, although Erik is wont to admit that. He had tired of being a recluse and trusted me with some of his secrets. Not all – I could hardly expect that. However, I think he was concerned for his own wellbeing. If I did not meet with him once a week here at the side of the lake, he told me to look for him and where the different entrances and traps were."

"I am pleased and a little surprised, that Erik has a friend. Two friends, counting Mme. Giry. He seems so terribly alone," she comments. Their relationship was exclusive to the two of them. When together, the world outside did not exist – only the music and a growing intimacy.

"I agree. What does it take for a man to leave the world to live under the earth? A living death," Nadir sighs. "But he has hope now, n'est pas. The one gift in Pandora's Box." He searches her eyes, still unsure of what this "angel" might say or do during the meeting with her former beau.

"One more tunnel and we will be free of them," Nadir announces. He unlatches another stone door and it opens to the lake, perhaps 40 meters from the other entry.

"Oh," she comments. "Who would have known?"

"Exactly," smiles the daroga. "I have no idea how many hiding places Erik has built within _this_ palace for himself."

"I take it there is another boat as well?" Christine smiles.

"Of course – dry-docked for the moment. He pulls aside some black cloaking and drags a boat, identical to the other that Erik used for her journeys across the lake. He pushes it into the water. "I will row you across and then leave you to find your way back your dressing room," he explains. "I hope that is all right with you. I have to return this boat to its hiding place on the other shore."

"Of course. I know the way well."

He assists her into the skiff.

"How will I explain my crossing, if someone asks?"

"Erik rowed you across the lake, then disappeared. Not an entire untruth."

He deftly guides the boat. Their lanterns barely make a dent in the otherwise complete darkness. While the light reflects off the water giving a bit of additional illumination, he is careful that the boat does not move too quickly, possibly overshooting the shore.

"Please know that I am not encouraging you to say anything in particular, Mam'selle, this is simply an option for you if the question is asked."

He breathes deeply with his rowing efforts and wipes his brow. "So many things have happened in the darkness of this place, creating an equal amount darkness in the hearts of the people who populate it." He glances down at her. "It is time for light and that, unfairly, or not, is dependent upon you. Only you appear to have the power and ability to correct many wrongs."

Christine nods and smiles – a smile of acceptance. "So I have been told."

"It is unfortunate that beauty brings out both good and evil in men's hearts. You have a pure soul, which makes you even more attractive. It is so rare, like your black diamond – he touches the pocket of his waistcoat – men will always wish to possess it.

"It is the greatest power; I believe you will use it well."

Christine's eyes are glossy with tears. "Thank you, M. Khan. I will do my best."

They reach the shore and he take her hand to assist her from the boat. Once she is securely on land, he kisses that same hand and smiles at her. "Adele is waiting for you in your dressing room," he tells her, re-boarding the boat.

"A bientot."

"Nadir," Christine says.

"Yes, mam'selle."

"Thank you. For everything. Most of all for Erik's life. I am in your debt."

"And I in yours."

* * *

Christine smooths the cashmere cape and pulls it closer around her. The air is damp and she shudders with a chill that rises up her spine. How much of that is cold, how much apprehension? She is grateful for the warmth of the cloak, admiring Erik's taste. As with the ring, this would have to be kept hidden from Raoul and his brother. She had seen many ladies after performances with shawls made of this same rich wool. An entire cape with a hood, must have cost a fortune. They would certainly recognize this and know she could never have purchased it on her own.

How difficult would it be for her to live below ground? She was always comfortable when staying at the old apartment. There was something safe in the quiet and peace, where the noises of the world could not reach. The new home that Erik created was brighter and warmer, and, again, she had no sense of loss by being underground.

There were new passages to explore, but she managed to adapt to finding her way through the passages from her dressing room to the lake. The new passages would be manageable as well, she suspected.

* * *

When she was a girl traveling with Pappa, they had spent a lot of time out of doors – often not being able to find refuge overnight either because they weren't close to a town or for lack of money. The journey was always in process. This was somewhat similar. Here, however, the only problem was, there wasn't much in the way of scenery. She laughed to herself.

She was aware that Erik didn't spend all of his time within the walls of the Opera House. He actually went out quite often, but usually at night. How difficult that must be – to feel that you cannot leave your home for fear of disdain.

" _I moved here permanently just before the siege – partially out of fear of being a victim of the war or having to take up arms. I had sworn to never kill again, except in self-defense."_

Was war considered self-defense, she wondered. She supposed that this was so to many.

" _They wanted me to defend my county, but I did not believe this was my country. Everywhere I went, with the exception of the Opera House, I was rejected. Even there the workmen kept their distance. My landlords kept asking me to move. Then we could no longer work on the building. All of those forces prompted me to leave the world above the ground and make my life here._ "

He recollected this one afternoon when she was talking about her life with her father. She had felt emboldened to ask him why he chose such a life.

In truth, Erik and Gustave Daee were both nomads in that respect – as was she, for that matter. Even though her birth country was Sweden, it had not been her home for a very long time. She was a shy girl – having never lived in one place for very long, and she had never been able to create friendships. Pappa was her only companion, except for that one summer with Raoul.

She supposed that their closeness during that time created the girlish idea of a romance with him and possible marriage in the future – some distant future. Then the summer was over and Raoul returned to his life and she to hers. Once reunited, despite the excitement of a romance and first love, their time together had shown him to be out of tune with her. Ah, a musical expression – but it was true. He did not hear her music, nor did he understand it. Music was her beginning and end. He had become somewhat patriarchal as well. He seemed to feel that he needed to give her guidance.

" _Raoul, I have been earning my living for some time now, and having to make decisions for myself."_

 _He,_ well, he lived off of an inheritance and had never worked or had to work for that matter. He likely never would. It bothered her when she told him that Erik was her Angel of Music as promised by her father and Raoul dismissed the idea that was even possible.

" _You do realize that you will not be able to sing at the Opera once we are wed, Little Lotte?"_

She hated when he called her that. She wasn't Little Lotte anymore. She was a grown woman. She was a Prima Donna, with her career just beginning and he was telling her she couldn't sing anymore.

" _Why is that? You love my singing. You are so proud when I sing and the audience stands to applaud."_

" _You will be a Vicomtesse. It isn't done. Phillippe would not allow it."_

" _I am not marrying Phillippe."_

" _He is the head of the family. He decides what we can and cannot do."_

" _He keeps Sorelli."_

 _Raoul scowls at her. "That is different."_

" _Would he prefer that you keep me – no marriage? No embarrassment?"_

" _That will not happen. We will marry."_

He didn't understand how she felt about Erik. He did control her music and attempted to control her life, she had to admit, but it was because of the music. All his efforts had been towards promoting her at the Opera. She knew that Erik had fallen in love with her and it was both confusing and stimulating to her as a young woman. But, his focus always returned to the music. It was his beginning and end as well. The one thing in his life that never failed him. For her, there was no idea of a romance with him. He was her teacher. He was her Angel of Music.

It wasn't Raoul's fault – he was who he was and was being trained to be the one in charge – the one who would control the household as his brother, Phillippe, now did. In her heart, she knew that Phillippe would never allow Raoul to marry her whatever the conditions. The idea of an elopement was a fantasy, but she went along – she still loved him, but marrying him became less and less desirable the more time they spent together.

She had accused Erik of deceiving her, but Raoul had as well – in a much more damaging way.

" _Your Angel of Music murdered Buquet and the woman who had the misfortune to be sitting under the chandelier when it fell."_

He used that argument so she would betray Erik. " _How can you defend a murderer?"_ A betrayal that almost caused his death.

As much as Erik wanted Raoul dead – Raoul felt the same. She had been very clear about her feelings to him, but he was still persisting with this kidnapping business.

She was deeply annoyed that everyone was being put through this to satisfy Raoul's ego.

For all of his intensity and obsessive behavior– Erik had let her go.

* * *

Her ruminations were so intense, she is not aware that she has reached the door leading to her dressing room. She presses the latch and the door swings open.

Adele jumps at the sound of the mirror opening. She grasps the girl in a warm hug and pulls her into the room, shutting the door firmly behind her.

"Nadir?"

"He said that he would be keeping watch and would come to your apartment when the time was appropriate."

"Then we had best go." She pushes Christine away from her, not letting go, but examining the girl. "Beautiful cape. He does have excellent taste. We must…"

"Yes, I know, hide it from Raoul."

"You are all right?"

"Very much so." Christine blushes, then starts to cry. "I love him. This is all my fault."

Adele pulls her back into another hug. "Erik has fought very hard to become a good man, despite his objections of that fact to Nadir and myself. He fancies himself evil and incorrigible. Perhaps he was once, but no more.

"This young Vicomte acted on whim and has hurt so many tonight. Not just you and Erik; the entire company is upset and all because of a fit of pique by an immature young man." She pulls away and puts on her own black wool cape. "Nevertheless, all will be well."

"Are you sure."

"No," the older woman admits. "But we will do our best." She smiles and smooths Christine's hair. "Now, we must go. I will send a messenger to Raoul and his brother. The sooner the meeting is over, the sooner we can get on with life. No more talk of kidnappings and murders."

* * *

Meg Giry kneels on the window seat watching the street from the parlor window. Her blonde hair is plaited and secured with a pink ribbon. A white flannel nightgown is covered by a pink chenille robe cinched at the waist with a bright fuchsia scarf. At the sight of Adele and Christine's approach, she rushes to the door and throws it open before they reach the landing.

"Oh, Maman, I thought you would never get here." She grabs Christine in a big hug. "I was so worried about you. Are you all right. You aren't hurt are you?" The words come out in a rush.

Christine laughs and returns the hug. "I'm fine, Meg. Perhaps a cup of tea? I just realized that I am famished."

"Yes, please, Meg. Let's have some tea and I believe there is a baguette and some cheese in the larder."

"Of course." The young dancer chasses into the kitchen to prepare the food. "Do not say anything until I can hear it all."

Adele shakes her head. "I do not know where she gets all that energy. Since she was a baby, she has been busy, busy, busy."

Christine laughs. "She makes me smile when I least feel like smiling." Her tone softens even more. "I do not know what I would have done without the two of you since Pappa died."

"We are happy to have you. Let me take that cape."

Christine hands it over tugging at the shoulders of her dress. "I will put it in my armoire." She looks Christine over, assessing the Aminta dress. "Maybe you should change into one of your other dresses. This one is, well… this one might bring about recollections. It is also a bit risqué – stunning on you, but let us not forget the reason for this meeting."

Christine nods, "It's falling off anyway. I was unable to completely hook it up when I put it back on at Erik's home." She does a bit of chasse herself to the bedroom she shares with Meg.

The older woman smiles at the attempt at humor – then realizes what Christine just said. "What do you mean you put it _back on_?

"Mme. Giry, I will explain – Nadir already knows, but you should as well. It may become an issue and I need your counsel." Christine calls from the small boudoir adjacent to the parlor.

The flat is small, but suits the sensibilities of the three women. The upper walls are covered with pale beige patterned paper – fleur-de-lis in shades of green, lavender and pink, the lower wainscoting painted in a matching beige. The dining table sits next to the window seat with cane-backed chairs, the seats covered with floral tapestries, at either end. Two additional matching chairs flank a glass fronted mahogany sideboard displaying dish and glassware, and several crystal bowls and serving pieces. Positioned against another wall is an upright piano displaying matching brass table lamps.

* * *

Adele's dark eyes survey the room and sighs. It will be crowded with 3 large men, but there is no choice. Raoul insisted the meeting be here. She had befriended him, not her choice, but Erik's idea.

" _I do not feel comfortable becoming involved in this."_

" _Please, Adele, I can think of no other way for all of us to speak."_

" _Why do you have to speak to him at all? Tell Christine how you feel and let her decide."_

" _I believe that she needs to see us together, side-by-side. Let us plead our cases, as it were, in a trial."_

" _That is not how courtships were conducted in my day, or any other day that I can think of, Erik."_

" _Well, I am a very different kind of man. As you must concede."_

" _Very well, but I cannot see how this will end satisfactorily for any of you."_

* * *

Christine returns to the room after several minutes in a pale blue cambric dress with cotton lace edging on the cuffs and neckline. The soft fabric gently embraces her figure, a relief after the tight binding of other dresses she has worn today. No bustle, no train, no petticoats.

"So? Explain." asks Adele, her arms akimbo, her left foot tapping. Her eyes go to the kitchen door. Meg is making much ado about her food preparation and singing something to herself, off-key as usual, Adele and Christine both cringe. "Her gift is the dance."

She draws Christine to sit on the sage green horsehair sofa that faces the door to the kitchen. She eyes the doorway and says, "I assume this is not something Meg needs to know."

"Not now, not ever if possible. She won't be present when the Chagnys come, will she?"

"No, I've already advised her of their imminent visit. Judging from her garments, I do not believe she expects to be in attendance – not that she will not be listening," she laughs lightly. "It was a relief to find her in her bedclothes when we arrived. She wasn't happy when I sent her home from the Opera House." She licks her lips and continues, "When Raoul wanted to follow you, she offered to help him."

"What?" Christine exclaims.

"She was afraid for you."

"But why would she want to help Raoul?" Christine stands abruptly.

"Sit, please. It may be a while until they arrive. Let us get all of this out in the open. There have been too many surprises this evening. I doubt Meg would create any problems." Adele walks to the kitchen door. "How are you doing with the food, Meg?"

Meg pushes past her into the parlor with a tray holding a tea pot, three mugs and a plate with a sliced baguette and cheese on it.

Christine goes to the tray for a piece of the bread and cheese. Eating as she returns to her seat on the sofa, she shrugs and extends her hand, palm up inviting Adele to control the dialogue.

"Meg, Christine has some things she wishes to share about this evening. Before she does, is there something you want to tell us?

Meg refuses to make eye contact with either of them, concentrating on pouring the tea into white ceramic mugs with a yet another floral print.

"You wanted to help Raoul and I did not have the time to question why."

"Erik was very upset – angry with both of them. I heard him talking to himself when coming down from the roof. He was crying." Her dark eyes fill with fear. "You told me that Erik wanted to talk to Raoul. But he was so angry." She pulls out one of the chairs and spoons pours some milk into her mug and stirs it. Her hand is shaking so that the spoon hits the edge of the mug creating a rattling noise.

Adele strides over to the table and takes the spoon out of her hand and slams it on the table.

"Why didn't you tell me this?"

"I-I did not believe he could stay angry with Christine, but wh-when everything started to happen on stage, I-I thought if I went, too… well, I can sometimes make him smile." She finishes with her chin in the air, defiant.

Christine's eyes move back and forth between the two women she loves and trusts before any others. She offers a silent prayer of thanks that Erik told her that he engaged Madame in his scheme. "You were not hoping to help Raoul because you wanted to hurt Erik?"

Meg's eyes widen, she puts a hand to her chest. "No. Never. No. Why would I want to hurt Erik?" Her smooth forehead wrinkles in a frown of hurt. "I told _you_ not to be afraid of him. Remember?" Meg hangs her head and looks up at them from under her long black lashes, so striking with her blonde hair and dark eyes, almost black, like her mother's.

"What else?" Adele demands. "I know that look. What have you done?"

Meg rushes back into the bedroom and returns with Erik's mask. She puts it on the table then steps back. "I went to the music room anyway, even when you told me not to," She says in a rush. "It was all dark. I thought that they were still there, but didn't see anyone. I looked around a bit, then I saw his mask on the organ and took it." She appeals to her mother. "I didn't know why he would leave his mask and I wanted it to be safe."

Christine rises from the sofa and walks back to the table. She returns her plate to the tray, then bends over the girl to give her a hug. "Thank you, Meg. I know he will be pleased."

Meg gives her a quizzical look and pulls away from the hug. "How would you know? You are always with the Vicomte," she snaps. "What happened? Maman? What happened? Is Erik all right? I know you said that the Chagnys were coming, but I still don't understand."

"Sit down, Meg." Adele says, then turns to Christine. "Meg's point is well taken. As recently as this afternoon, you appeared to be settled in your affections toward Raoul." She folds her hands in her lap. "Perhaps you can edify both of us."

Christine's eyes get lost in her memories of the events that transpired after she unmasked Erik for the second time. After their duet. After the world exploded.

* * *

She had feared this would happen when Raoul rolled out his plan. The first time she had pulled off Erik's mask he had come undone – she had never seen such anger.

" _Damn. Do you realize what you have done? No, of course you do not. Pandora."_

It had been a foolish act, but there had been no malice. After his initial reaction of rage, he tried to explain.

" _I long for beauty – not hate. Only love and beauty."_

Her petty heart could not open to him – not then. His face had frightened her, although she hardly saw it – he kept his hand over the right side, except for a brief moment – a test, perhaps. Still, there was no disguising her fear.

His rage was the real horror. When she handed him the mask and he put it back on, it was as if nothing had happened. As quickly as he had erupted, calm returned.

That time had been between the two of them, though.

How could she have imagined his reaction this time could be anything less than a disaster? The insane logic was that she risk her life to save her life – her life with Raoul that she was not certain she wanted and the lives of opera folk who never missed an opportunity to mock her – her simple dress, her accent. Still she went along with their plan.

" _It all depends on you, Christine."_

She knew it was Erik, even before he began to sing. She was always aware when he was near. The closeness of his proximity to her on the stage only intensified the sensation. The urge to run was overwhelming, but the desire to stay and sing with him was equally strong – in all actuality it was stronger. When he sang, she became lost in his voice. When they sang together she felt whole. There was also the power she felt within herself. The knowledge that she had such control over him was heady stuff.

" _What secrets will we uncover?"_

The intensity was too great, too frightening – she had to break the spell. The shroud was lifted. But when she saw his face – his eyes – she faltered. He proposed – there on the stage. He gave her his ring – her ring. The black diamond.

This farce of a capture had to end. The police had surrounded the stage, she felt them waiting to kill this man who had given her her voice. Whatever Erik had planned – he must have been mad to think he could sing and just leave afterwards – was not going to work. She had to help him escape.

She tore off the mask. His poor horrid face exposed. The cruelty of the exposure only served to magnify his disfigurement.

" _No."_

His scream pierced her heart. In his agony, the cry soared and filled the room – the turning point of their duet realized. Time stood still for a moment as the crowd took in the sight of his face.

The opportunity was now there for him to escape – in the confusion. But not alone – not without her. He grabbed her wrist. They ran together. They wouldn't shoot him so long as she was with him. She hoped he understood what she had done.

The path seemed longer and harder than before. He would pause to catch his breath crying and trying to understand.

" _My life was full of pain and rejection. There was no compassion. Just hate. Why?"_

Christine had no response. She had become one of them, for a time at least. He had recovered himself the last time. But that seemed so long ago. Too much had happened since then. Too many new betrayals.

" _I gave you my music."_

They followed the familiar route to Erik's underground home – to Christine's room – the room where she had stayed when receiving her lessons. It was empty now, save for a chaise. A white gown had been laid out on the deep blue velvet. A tulle veil with a headpiece of pink and white rosettes rested against the layers of silk and lace of the dress.

" _Put on the dress."_

" _Here? Now?"_

Amber eyes burned into hers. His face was fully exposed to her now. No hand raised to cover the visage that had damned his life. They dared her to turn or run.

She willed herself to face him down, swallowing the disgust that rose in her throat. His remarkable ugliness had her more fascinated than afraid. Pity welled in her chest.

" _Best accustom yourself to it – this is the face you will be looking at for the rest of your days."_

" _I have no fear of your face"_

" _Perhaps you should."_

" _Your face cannot harm me."_

He raised an eyebrow. The heat of his eyes tempered, shifted to a different level – admiration, perhaps? His look thrilled her, but the darkness behind the heat was still frightening.

" _Put on the dress."_

He abruptly turned away from her to face the door.

" _Now. Here and now."_

She fumbled with the hooks of the coral silk dress. Her shaking hands, unused to removing her costumes on her own, were unable to manage the hooks. _"I-I cannot undo the dress by myself."_

Erik turned and strode to where she stood next to the chaise. His fingers marked off some music as he moved toward her. However still he might be, his fingers danced.

She stood, still as a piece of statuary, one arm hanging limp at her side, the other holding the chestnut curls she had pulled over her shoulder to expose the back of the dress, in wait for his assistance.

With deft movements, he unhooked the string of metal clasps. There was no hurry as he went about his task. The sense of him behind her, undoing her clothing, sent a rush of adrenalin through her body - filling every inch of her being reaching to her deepest core. Her desire confused her.

She trembled as she felt his breath on the nape of her neck. His gentle touch and the knowledge that he was focusing all of his attention on her during this intimate act left her breathless. It took all her will to not fall back against him, to not press her body against his as she had done earlier on stage – wanting him to run his hands up her body and caress her now as he had done then.

Without warning, he stepped back. _"There. You are free."_

No, hardly that.

Containing herself, she pulled off the dress and petticoats and draped them over the arm of the chaise. Although her combination undergarment and corset covered most of her body, she felt naked and exposed – physically and emotionally.

Keeping his focus away from her, he lifted the white gown from the chaise and showed her the lace bodice. " _It unhooks in the front to expose buttons. I designed it that way. I believe you can manage this yourself."_ He handed her the gown with a slight bow. Then returned to his station by the door – his back once again to her. Giving her privacy? Rejecting her?

The white gown was heartbreakingly lovely – layers of glistening white silk, delicate embroidery with pearls sewn into the lace edging of each panel of fabric. She stepped into the dress, pulled it up over her undergarments, and fastened the buttons and hooks that Erik had shown her.

" _I am gowned."_

He turned to face her. Their eyes met for the briefest of moments. For that little while she saw his love again – the depth and sadness of his need and desire. His gaze took her in. Drawing in a deep breath, he released a small groan, barely audible.

He grunted softly, put his hand out for hers. She gave it to him and he led her back into the music room.

" _Fate has denied me the pleasures of fleshly pursuits."_

She recoiled at the coarse words – the tenderness of his earlier glance was gone. The sensuality was gone – this was base. She attempted to pull away. Despite her own urges, she would not be forced.

" _So I am just a vehicle for your lust?"_

" _I told you that we would be wed. It would not be lust if we are wed."_

" _You have not explained how we are to be wed."_

" _You are already bound to me. I have composed a duet for us to sing in celebration of our wedding. Does it not say: what God hath joined together? God or Satan has joined us – so we will pledge ourselves here, in the world where music is everything. I have included all the appropriate words."_

What he was saying made no sense to her. Ripping off his mask unleashed whatever demons and monstrous hatred that was harbored in his soul. Now there was this storm long buried inside him, come to life in those moments when they left the stage and journeyed down to what was no longer a room of joy and music, but hell. His hell, but now hers as well.

" _My first mask was a piece of cloth my mother threw over my face."_

She had wanted to reason with him, but was aware that her rejection had struck too deep, was too painful for any sort of reason to reach. He had spit the words at her, but the anger was old and rotten.

" _No woman would ever have me. I trusted you, taught you, loved you and you would just leave. Just leave me with no farewell."_

Christine took his arms and tried to explain her feelings. _"It is not your face. It is your heart."_

" _My heart is broken – the contents emptied onto the floor of this room at your feet."_

Then Raoul burst in, concerned, certainly, but shouting about compassion. Something Erik had never known.

" _Raoul, no."_

Erik grabbed her by the throat. _"Be still."_ She grabbed his hand to loosen the grip.

" _You speak of compassion."_ He had cried out to Raoul.

" _Let me look at Christine."_

Erik became aware of her, kneeling on the floor at his feet. He had released her as if burned. He shook his hand and stared at it as if it did not belong to him. He had no desire to harm her – never would he want to harm her. He left her there – walked to his carved chair.

Raoul rushed to her. To help her up. To run. He was unaware of Erik.

He had retrieved a noose, grabbed Raoul, and placed the heavy rope around his neck. He then attached the rope the metal doorway behind the organ.

" _Choose me: he lives. Choose him: he dies."_

A cacophony of voices ensued – she was only aware of her own pleas to let Raoul go.

" _That is no choice."_

" _It is the only one you have."_

" _You are not the only one who can hate. I can hate, too."_

" _Indeed?"_

" _You lied to me."_

She grabbed for Erik's hand.

" _Is that so? Well, we have that in common now, do we not?_

He pulled his hand away, leaving her to slide to the floor.

Bending down, his face within inches of hers, he whispered.

" _You try my patience. Choose."_

He stood in wait, back yet again turned away from her.

* * *

"I prayed for him and for myself. I sat there on the floor of the room where he taught me to sing, never asking anything in return, and I prayed.

"My heart spoke. I rose from the floor, went to him and kissed him. My heart opened instantly." She touches her chest. "I kissed him again, caressing the face that had driven him to the brink of madness his entire life – then my soul opened."

"He knew it, too. He looked at my face again and his eyes told me that he understood. There was sorrow there and a strange resolution. The hatred was gone."

"And Raoul?" Adele asks quietly.

"Erik released Raoul from the noose and told us to leave. I had chosen him, but he told us to leave together. His grief was so deep and so…pure. It pained him to say what he did. It was important to him, though, that I not stay." She frowns. "I was confused, at that point, I only wanted to do as he requested. So did as he instructed."

"Then why were you not with Raoul when he returned to the Opera House? He said you were kidnapped, that Erik was holding you against your will."

Christine's face flushes with anger. "He lied. I went with him to the boat then told him to go without me – I wanted to be with Erik. It was my choice to stay."

"I told you he was not a nice man, Maman." Meg pipes in. She jumps up and runs to hug Christine. "Oh, I'm so happy you love Erik."

Christine's smile is tired as she returns the hug.

"Why did you say he was not a nice man?" Adele asks.

"He kept saying that Erik was evil and that he killed Buquet and made the chandelier fall even after we knew the truth. If he thought Christine loved him so much, what did Erik matter? Why did he have the police there?"

A knock on the door startles the women.

"Meg, go to your room and stay there, please."

"Maman?"

"No, you are dressed for bed. I suspect you will listen to us, but do not come back into this room until they are gone. Understood?"

Meg walks, no chasses this time, to the bedroom, closing the dark green drape behind her.

Christine moves over to the table and takes a seat in the chair closest to the kitchen door. She toys with one of the mugs, using its smooth form to calm her hands. She takes a small sip of tea and attempts to relax into the chair. The mask, sits in plain view where Meg left it. She gasps. "Madame…" She points to the mask.

"Hide it." Adele whispers.

Christine picks up the white porcelain sculpture, wraps it in one of the linen napkins and holds it on her lap.

Adele nods. She smooths her skirt as she walks to the door and opens it to a tall, thin man dressed in elegant gray tails and wool top hat. His face is long and carries an air of grave solemnity. The blue eyes take on the coloring of his garb. Despite a significant age difference, his resemblance to Raoul is unmistakable. Raoul told her that Phillippe was 15 when he was born, so he tends to be more a father to the younger man than brother.

Mme. Giry?

"M. le Comte. M. le Vicomte. Please, come in."

Raoul hovers behind Phillippe, still wearing the brown tweed pants and waistcoat he wore earlier. The only addition is a black cutaway that does not complete his suit. He notices her examination and mumbles, "I lost my tailcoat and hat during the melee – had to borrow something from my footman to wear." He offers a slight bow. "I apologize for my appearance." His eyes search the room for Christine. Pale blue eyes light up when he sees her.

Her returned look is less bright.

He lowers his gaze.

Adele opens the door wide so the men can enter. "Please have a seat." She indicates they sit on the sofa.

Phillippe removes his hat and walks gracefully across the room and sits, placing his hat on the oval coffee table. He gives no indication that he is aware of Christine's presence. Raoul follows him, staying close behind as if under orders to do so.

"May I offer you tea?"

Raoul looks to Phillipe, who nods. "Thank you, Mme. Giry. We would very much like some tea."

"I'll freshen this up." Adele walks to the dining table to retrieve the serving tray that Meg prepared earlier. Situating herself between Christine and the Chagnys, she takes the napkin from Christine hands and places it on the tray. She adds the used mugs and takes the entire service into the kitchen.

Another knock on the door.

"Christine, could you please answer that?"

"Of course." She rises from the table and opens the door to the daroga.

The eyes of the Chagny men follow her.

"Monsieur?"

"Ah, you must be Madamoiselle Daee, I am so pleased to meet you in person. I have enjoyed your singing from the distance of the audience at the Opera House." he says. "I am Nadir Khan, Mme. Giry's friend. She asked me to come here as a witness to the conversation the gentlemen wish to have with you." He indicates the men with a tip of his head. "Monsieurs."

Phillippe raises an eyebrow, taking in the daroga's European evening dress elevated by the presence of the brightly colored Dervish hat.

"Of course, of course. Please come in." She smiles at the daroga's theatrical entrance. She pulls out the other dining room chair, offering it to him.

"Thank you." He sits, then stands again, along with the other men when Adele re-enters the room carrying the tray with the tea things and a plate of biscuits, in lieu of the baguette and cheese.

Once everyone is settled with seating, tea orders placed and cookies distributed, Adele initiates the dialogue. "M. le Vicomte, you asked to see Mlle. Daee - Christine. You are seeing her. What else would you like?"

Phillippe turns to Raoul, who is flushed with embarrassment and a touch of anger. He stares at Christine, who sits up straight, hands folded in her lap, matching his stare with one of her own.

Phillippe clears his throat. "May we know who M. Khan is? We believed this would be a private meeting."

Adele smiles at him graciously. "M. Khan is an old friend of mine. I felt the need to have someone with a knowledge of the law be present."

"You are with the police, M. Khan?" Phillippe inquires.

The daroga chuckles, "Not exactly, M. Le Comte. I am a private investigator. I suppose you might consider me a policeman for hire."

"I see." He turns to address Adele. "You felt the need for protection from us, Madame?"

Adele's look is cold. "Only in a figurative sense, Monsieur. Christine is without a formal guardian, although at 20 years, she is certainly of an age to be without." Adele walks over to stand behind Christine and places her hands on her shoulders. "She did, however, have a very close relationship with her late father and he asked that I look after her."

"So, I repeat my question as to why M. Khan is present here now."

"Because I want him here to provide a male perspective for Christine, if she wishes one," Adele responds. "He is to be witness and, depending upon the way the conversation turns, could possibly add something to the dialogue."

Raoul rises from his seat. His agitation is apparent in his flushed face and heavy breathing. "I want to speak to Christine. Alone," he demands.

"Raoul, sit down," orders Phillippe. "I will handle this."

"No. If you had agreed to allow me to marry Christine, none of this would have happened."

"Sit down." The older man demands. "You think you are ready to be a married man with what you have done? You are creating yet another scene. Now, be still."

Raoul returns to his place on the sofa and holds his head in his hands.

"What is it you want to say, Raoul?" Christine asks. Adele squeezes her shoulder and Christine smiles up at her. "Raoul?"

"Where is the other dress – the wedding dress? The one you wore down there…in that dungeon?"

"I have no wedding dress now," she answers softly.

"You did have one," he insists. Phillippe holds the young man's arm, so he cannot get up.

"Yes, but, as you can see, this is no longer the case," she replies opening her arms to show the plain bodice of her blue dress. "Is that what you wanted to know? Can you now leave?"

Phillippe glares at Raoul. "No, mademoiselle, that is not all." He stands up.

Nadir aware of his movement shifts his weight on the small chair.

Phillippe dismisses this, waving his hand at the daroga. "There will be no physicality," he sneers. "Let us get on with this.

"Raoul, you claimed that this Phantom tried to kill you and others. Then you conceived of a plan to entrap the man or whatever he is." He looks directly at Christine. "What of that, Mlle. Daee? Is that a fantasy along with the wedding gown?" His face fills with disgust.

"Did Raoul tell you that he planned for us to elope with after the performance tonight? I was ambivalent. We were courting, but I was aware of your disapproval, M. le Comte." Her smile is rueful. "I told Raoul that his family would never accept me as their daughter because of my status, but he insisted. The truth of that is apparent on your face.

"As for your question, I do not believe that the, uh, Phantom intended to kill anyone," she responds. "He has been my voice teacher for some months and did not believe that Raoul was a good match for me. He felt that Raoul would not allow me to continue singing. That was very important to him – my continued career. His intuition was correct."

Raoul rushes towards her. "No, that's not true. He wanted to kill me – us."

Christine pushes her body into her chair away from him, shielding her face with her arm. Adele moves in front of Christine to block him.

The daroga leaps from his own chair to intercept Raoul. Nadir grabs him by the shoulders and pushes him back towards the sofa. "Now, _I_ will tell you to sit." He shoves him down and sits next to him, with a sharp look daring Phillippe to comment. "No physicality, hmm?"

"Enough." Christine stands. She smiles at Adele. "Thank you."

She turns to face Phillippe. "Your brother invited the police to ambush the Phantom. He told me that the Phantom had killed Buquet and was responsible for the chandelier. Raoul argued that justice must be done. The implication was that if I didn't agree to go along with his plan, all of us would die by the Phantom's hand somehow."

Her look at Raoul is full of outrage. "Against my better judgment, I went along with his plan. I agreed to reveal him to the police."

"Yes, I know all of this," Phillippe responds.

Nadir steps in. "Did you verify his claims – about the deaths?"

Phillippe indicates the chair that Nadir has vacated, "May I?" He asks Adele.

She nods and moves behind the table to sit on the window seat. She glances out the window and notices some movement in the street below. Whatever who or it was, is gone. Adele shivers.

Christine senses Adele's unrest and looks back to check on her, her eyes shift to the window. Her pale eyes move back to meet Adele's dark ones. A silent communication takes place. _He is here._

Christine glances at Phillippe from the corner of her eye. He did not noticed the exchange. His focus is on Nadir and Raoul. His own eyes moving back and forth between them.

Nadir continues, "No? I did not think so. The problem with all of this is, the O.G. or Phantom or whatever you want to call him – killed no one. Your brother here…" Nadir slaps Raoul on the back, perhaps a little harder than necessary, causing Raoul to cough. "Stirred up a tempest over nothing. The police are none too pleased with him right now."

Raoul pushes the daroga's hand away and stands again. "He deserves to be punished for what he did afterwards. Tell them, Christine. Tell them. Please do not make me look the fool."

She walks up to Raoul, facing him down. The daroga starts to rise, but she puts out her hand to stop him, never taking her eyes off of Raoul's face as she tells the story to the others.

"You would have him punished for acting against something you created? Had you not meddled, you would never have been in a position to be challenged." She instructs him. "When I tore his mask off, it was to help him – to create a diversion. I realized my mistake trusting you. You told them to shoot to kill. Why? He had committed no crime." She speaks over her shoulder to Phillippe, her eyes still on Raoul. "When Erik, that's his name – Erik, took my hand, I went with him. Had I not, he would have died. _For nothing_."

Raoul retreats a step. Christine puts up her hand on his chest.

She continues. "Raoul managed to find his way through the tunnels and broke into Erik's home. Erik acted in self-defense. Raoul said he wanted him dead, breaking into in his private dwelling confirmed that. Yes, Erik placed a noose around his neck, but did not tighten it. He simply hooked it to the grating to restrain Raoul."

Phillippe adjusts his position in his chair. Adele and Nadir quietly observe the young woman tear her former beau apart with her words – almost afraid to breathe. Raoul has turned to stone as he absorbs Christine's rage.

"Yes, Erik was my teacher, but I had come to love him as more than that. He wanted me to decide between the two of them."

She inches ever so slightly closer towards the young man daring him to say or do something. Raoul flinches.

"The conversation became exceptionally heated and I do realize that Raoul must have been terrified. Erik can be quite fearsome, especially when he wears no mask. His face was deformed at birth and is quite ugly to those who do not know him."

"I was able to calm him. He released Raoul and told us to leave together. Despite all that had occurred he had the notion I would be happier with Raoul than with him." A sad smile. "I disagreed and told Raoul he should leave without me."

She breaks eye contact with Raoul and turns away from him to face Phillippe. "I ask you, Monsieur le Comte, what would you do if someone burst into your home uninvited after attempting to cause your death?"

Phillippe only stares at her.

"As I thought." She smirks. " _That_ is what happened."

The spell broken, Raoul is furious at Christine's recitation. His face is red and he raises a fist and takes a step toward her. "You are not telling the truth about how it was. He was raving mad."

Nadir prepares to restrain the young man again. Raoul becomes aware of Nadir and lowers his arm. He remains where he is. "He killed people. He had to be killed. He stole you from me. He tried to kill me. And you kissed that monster." He screams at her.

She swings around. " _You_ tried to kill him. That was your plan all along. He only attacked you after you went after him. Even then, he didn't hurt you. He let you go." She fights to catch her breath. "You are a spoiled child, Raoul de Chagny. You created the chaos tonight."

"Why are you here, then, Mlle. Daee, if you chose this Erik person?" asks Nadir.

"He told me that it wasn't right for me to be with him unchaperoned. He did not want my reputation or my career damaged." For the first time since this interview began she is smiling. "He said I should return home, so I did."

Christine faces the chastened young man again, and touches his cheek. "I am sorry, Raoul. This was not entirely your fault. I misled you because I was unsure of my feelings. I love you still, as an old friend." She bites her lip. "What you did was truly wrong, especially the lies you told me about Erik." Her smile is rueful. "However, had you not, I might not have recognized my true feelings and, for that, I am grateful to you."

Raoul can only stare at her. He shakes his head in disbelief. "How can you say these things, Christine? I do not understand."

Phillippe raises his eyebrows and stands. "Let us go, Raoul. I think we have discovered what it was you wanted to know. Mlle. Daee has made herself quite clear. I am only grateful that she is not with child. Either yours or his. When these women get into trouble, they will go with whomever will take them. That was my greatest fear."

Christine faces Phillippe. "M. le Comte, the idea that you believed me to be with child should shock and offend me, but it does not. It is much what I would expect from one of your class. That said, Erik did not hurt Raoul much beyond his feelings, but I must take responsibility for that and it is for that pain I apologize."

She takes a deep breath. "If it is within your power, and you accept what I have said about the events of this evening, I would very much appreciate it if you would ask the police to end their pursuit of Erik and leave us in peace."

"Madamoiselle, as your friend M. Khan has said, the police are none too pleased with my brother. They, themselves, have called off any further pursuit of your Erik." His face is grim. "This meeting was my idea to ease my mind about your relationship with him. I was prepared to offer you an allowance for any needs you might have."

Adele says, "She needs nothing from you M. le Comte." She walks to Christine's side and puts her arm around the young woman's shoulders. "She is a good and honorable girl."

"They all are, Madame, until a 'situation' arises and, then, they are not," he comments drily. "If at some point, the mademoiselle would want to reinitiate a relationship with my brother and he with her, she would be accommodated, but marriage will never be allowed." He puts on his hat, taking Raoul by the arm, he ushers him to the door. "Madame, Mademoiselle, Monsieur – I thank you for allowing us this meeting. Since this is what I believe will be the end of our acquaintance, my brother and I bid you adieu." He taps the brim of his hat. To Raoul, "Let us go. This day has gone on entirely too long."

Nadir opens the door. Raoul turns back to look at Christine – tears in his eyes. He bends his head and follows his brother into the hallway. Nadir closes the door behind them.

"I do not know whether I should laugh or cry," says Adele.

"The arrogance of the man is amazing, but, truthfully, I have seen worse," Nadir chimes in.

Meg bursts out from behind the curtain to her bedroom. "Raoul was really angry. Christine was so strong."

Christine does not hear them. She has moved to the window seat and watches the Chagnys board their carriage. As it moves down the street, she shifts her gaze and smiles down at a figure, clothed in black, barely visible in the shadows. Touching her fingers to her lips, she turns her hand and presses the fingers against the window pane.

 **A/N Since I am using much of ALW's work as the basis for my story, there is a temptation to use his "dialogue" as well. I have made every attempt to retain the essence of the work without using the exact words. There is one exception in this chapter – this was, to me, a perfect line executed at a perfect time in POTO and I couldn't bring myself to change it.**


	6. Helpmeet

Masks

An alarm startles him awake.

Erik's eyes pop open. He tries to shake off the unexpected sleep that overtook him when he sat down on the settee. A gold tinged crystal snifter sits on the small coffee table, two fingers of cognac left untasted.

Once he saw his beloved Christine in the window of Mme. Giry's flat, offering him a kiss, he was able to relax somewhat from the events of the evening. He grasped the kiss she sent him with his hand and placed it on his own lips, then returned to the caverns beneath the Opera house and home.

Much as he despised not being privy to the conversation that had taken place, he knew that could not take the chance of seeing Christine. The Chagny brougham drove past him, but who was to say that some sort of guard had not been left behind? It was what he would do, what he was doing.

He could not imagine that the boy would recover from Christine's rejection easily. He had himself to use as an example. When she left him, he believed death was the better alternative to living without her. He had to credit the Vicomte for his courage, foolish as it turned out to be.

The first light of dawn was visible and like some mythical vampire he hastened to the darkness so as not to turn to dust. He had the sense to find amusement in this image of himself. How many years had he slept in a coffin? Too many years in a cellar, living alone in the bowels of the earth had not cured the self-hatred. These past few years and particularly the months teaching Christine confirmed his humanity and his desire…need for companionship and, yes, love.

Love was always some sort of abstract concept to him. He had known elements of it – Marie, his childhood nurse, Nadir, Adele and little Meg – even Garnier. And now, Christine. Oh, the wonder of that love. Yet, a knot of fear settled in his gut. Had she actually rid herself of the Vicomte?

Despite his concerns about their future, he fell asleep – still clothed. An old mask and his wig lie on the floor beside the sofa. Perhaps wearing the mask all of the time was not the best thing for him. His entire life had altered when he was without that protection.

Rising, he realizes that his bodily needs must be attended to. Stretching his aching body, stiff and sore from sleeping on the sofa, he pulls off his jacket and waistcoat and carries them into his bedroom along with the wig and mask retrieved from the floor.

The room seems excessively dark to him now.

The coffin was left behind, replaced by an over-sized four poster. The bed was entirely too large for him and he often used the settee for his naps. Still attached to the black and gold color scheme of the coffin's appointments, black velvet curtains with gold tassels hang from the canopy frame. He sets the mask and wig atop the bureau; the waistcoat and jacket are hung in the carved mahogany armoire. His shirt is removed and discarded into a rattan hamper.

Carrying a fresh shirt from the armoire, he enters his bathroom. The lavish green marble tiles used to create the old bathroom are reconfigured here. A large ceramic soaking tub, sink, commode and assorted wooden cabinets complete the room. He completes his toilette - washing his face and upper body with Pears soap. A heavy white hemp bath towel is removed from a rack to dry himself. He dons the soft cotton shirt with a small standing collar. He puts on the mask and wig, then returns to the sitting room.

Grabbing the brandy glass, he is making his way to the kitchen when the alarm sounds again. This time he is aware of it. He realizes what it was that woke him initially, and walks briskly through the kitchen to follow the passageway to the street door - bypassing the traps.

The door is opened to Nadir in the middle of a yawn. Once again with his hat askew - this time the Persian wears his familiar astrashkan cap. The lids of his black eyes are still puffy with his own broken sleep. The daroga covers his mouth and smiles sheepishly.

"Do not let me rouse you," Erik remarks as he allows his friend to pass. "I see you made it past two traps today even though you appear to be sleepwalking."

"No thanks to you, my friend. What took you so long to respond to the first alarm?"

"I suppose it woke me, but did not register."

Erik leads him back to the house and closes the door behind them. "Tea?" He puts a kettle on the stove and removes two cups and saucers from a cupboard and places them on the table. A lemon, pulled from the fruit bowl, is cut into wedges and a jar of honey is removed from the larder.

He is still groggy from the unexpected slumber and moves by rote through the homely tasks.

Nadir takes a seat and helps himself to an apple from the bowl on the table.

"Are you going to tell me what happened last night with the Changys or must I wait until you have consumed that piece of fruit?"

Nadir fills him in on the details.

"Your lady gave the brothers a good tongue lashing – you would have been proud. Seems she is learning more from you than singing."

Erik manages a small smile. "So the outcome?"

"They left – the young Vicomte with his tail between his legs," Nadir chortles. "That said, I would still be cautious of him. He was quite outraged at Christine's recitation of what had occurred. Since you are the only three people involved in that, I cannot comment as to the veracity of her description as to the tone of the altercation."

"Meaning?"

"Meaning, she suggested that he was at fault. Although her rationale was completely sound and, based on what I heard, likely true, she essentially downplayed your brutality and what the actuality of danger Monsieur le Vicomte was in.

Erik's face darkens. "My brutality?"

"Do not attempt to suggest that I am not aware how vicious your fury can be, my friend. Or your level of cold calculation. You hate that boy." Nadir stares him down. "Remember I also saw you on stage when your mask was pulled off."

"I was in hell." Erik admits.

"Yes – the devil took hold of your soul," Nadir agrees. "Whatever Christine did once Raoul caught up with you, she saved Raoul's life, I suspect. Yours, too, since you are actually listening to me instead of raging."

Erik ponders his words and nods. "My angel."

Nadir pulls a napkin from the pocket of his cutaway and unwraps Erik's mask.

Erik questions him with a look, one eyebrow raised.

"Meg," Nadir responds. "It was she you sensed in the music room."

"Hmmph, little vixen. Well, that is one fear I can remove from my mind. I should have suspected as much," he smiles as he picks up the fragile piece of porcelain. "Just had this one cast, the artisan is a master and this fits so much better than the others. I am working with other materials, so I can make them myself. Travelling to Belgium and paying the artist has become quite costly." He switches the masks, and puts the old one on the table. "I shall have to gift Meg with something special for her efforts."

Nadir tosses a newspaper on the table.

"Now what?"

" _Le Petite Journal_ – a newspaper."

Erik frowns, puzzled.

"It tells you what is going on in the city, in the world. News."

"Of course I know what a newspaper is; what do I care of those things?" He pours the boiling water into the ceramic teapot and adds several spoonsful of black tea.

"I forgot, you are a world unto yourself." He pushes it towards Erik. "Read."

Erik sits down and prepares his tea, pulling the paper toward him: "Opera Populaire to Continue Performances" is the headline. Frowning, he raises his eyes to meet Nadir's. "What?"

"Your opera has been saved," Nadir announces. "They are saying that the pyrotechnics were faulty and detonated improperly. Some members of the cast were unfamiliar with that element of the scene being performed and over-reacted when the 'staged' kidnapping occurred. Many apologies, blah, blah, blah – they are concerned that people would think this was another chandelier issue. Not the case. Simply a piece of modern theater run amok. The scene is to be revised and the opera will reopen in a week's time. Those in attendance at the original performance will be offered free admission to the re-opening."

"They are making last night disappear?"

"So it would seem. There has been a lot of money invested in "Don Juan Triumphant" – why not make the best of it? The brouhaha actually created publicity and interest. Just as when Carlotta went off in a huff and you absconded with Christine the first time."

"I feel as though I am living a dream. An entire lifetime of nightmares are suddenly transformed." He jumps up. "I must see Christine."

Nadir is close on his heels. "No. Stop. Not now."

"Why?" Erik growls. "Is your new role chaperone?" He glares at the Persian.

"Adele will be bringing her here soon. The managers contacted her this morning for a meeting."

"This morning? When did all of this happen? How long have I been asleep?"

"If you stopped watching Adele's flat when the Chagnys left and came directly here," he checks his pocket watch. "9 hours or so…"

"That is not possible. I have never slept more than a few hours at a time my entire life."

"It appears that now you have," Nadir retorts. "If you lived as a normal person, you would realize that it is almost midday"

Erik grunts.

"For myself, I slept on Adele's sofa..."

Erik raises an eyebrow. "Hmm."

"As I said, I slept on Adele's sofa. We stayed up a while after the Comte and Raoul left. A messenger was pounding on the door at 9 AM, so we are all a bit drowsy – you probably slept more than any of us."

* * *

A loud knock sounds through the sleeping flat.

"Who is there? Mon Dieu, what is the time _?"_ Adele calls out while pulling a brocade dressing gown over her night dress.

Nadir catches himself before falling on the floor from the sofa and pushes aside the multi-colored knit afghan quilt Adele gave him to cover himself. "What is it?"

"Someone is at the door. Hide."She waves him toward the kitchen.

He grabs his tailcoat, hat and the blanket to disappear into the kitchen.

The knocking starts in again. "Mme. Giry? I have a message for you from the managers of the Opera Populaire."

Adele opens the door to a roughly dressed boy holding an envelope out to her. She recognizes him as the messenger she used last night to send her message to the Chagnys. "Andre, you are still at work?"

"Oui, Madame,"the urchin replies, a big smile on his face. "If I am to be a business man, I must work very hard."He dusts off the tweed jacket that is a bit too small for him. "This is from MM. Richard and Moncharmin."

Adele takes the envelope and removes a franc from her purse to give the boy.

"Merci, Madame."Andre's eyes light up. He bows, pockets his coin and runs down the corridor to the stairs.

"Andre, wait, what if there is a reply?" She calls out after him, but he is gone. She shrugs. "If he means what he says, he will be somewhere around if I need him," she remarks to herself closing the door.

"Maman, what is happening?"Meg asks walking from her bedroom as she puts her robe.

Christine, donning a white nightgown with ruffles down the front, is on her heels. Her chestnut curls fall over her shoulders framing her face. She stifles a yawn.

Nadir appears from the kitchen, carrying a tray with cups and a teapot. "The water has not yet come to a boil."

"We have a message from the managers at the theater," Adele announces. "They are certainly up early."

"Or never went to bed," Christine offers. "They must be very concerned about the Opera House."

Meg goes into the kitchen to check on the water – she returns carrying the copper kettle into the dining area and fills the ceramic pot with water. The four friends prepare their tea and wait for Mme. Giry to open the envelope.

Adele takes a deep breath as she slits the envelope open with the bread knife.

 _Mme. Giry,_

 _We are contacting you both as our ballet mistress and as the friend and guardian of Mlle. Christine Daae. It is our understanding that she resides with you and that you would be able to give her a message regarding her participation as Aminta in the Opera known as "Don Juan Triumphant."_

 _The extraordinary events of last night appear to have occurred due to a grave misunderstanding on the part of ourselves and the police. We are in hopes of reopening the Opera in a few days and would wish to have your presences at our offices today to discuss each of your roles in this plan._

 _Unless we hear from you to the contrary, we will expect your kind appearance at our office at noon for this discussion._

 _Most sincerely,_

 _Armand Moncharmin_

 _Firmin Richard_

* * *

"Continue dressing, they will likely be here shortly."

Erik removes to his bedroom and completes dressing – putting on a black cravat, waistcoat and frock coat. He grabs what appears to be a loop of silk from the top of his dressing table, folds it and jams it into a trouser pocket.

He stops short and raises his head – listening. _"Erik, help me."_

"We must go _now_." He announces to Nadir as he storms back into the sitting room.

"Adele said that they would come here," Nadir states.

"Something is wrong," Erik states as he walks into the kitchen. "I heard Christine call out - here in my mind." He is halfway out the door with Nadir on his heels when another alarm sounds.

The men exchange a look. "That is the alarm from the mirror. Christine would always set it off twice to let me know she was coming, so I could meet her with the boat. It only rang once."

* * *

Armand and Firmin, attired in matching morning suits of brown pants with brown tweed coats, both stand at the door to the Opera House office to welcome Adele and Christine. As always, they appear to be one unit.

"Madame, Madamoiselle, please come in," they say in unison.

Adele and Christine exchange an amused look.

Armand continues, "We are so pleased that you were able to attend our little meeting."

"You wished to speak to us of our continued employment with the Opera?" Adele asks. "From your letter, I assume that you plan to re-open 'Don Juan Triumphant?'" She is garbed in her usual black faille, a black lace veil secured with a jeweled hat pin covers her braids and forehead. A small black silk bag with metallic embroidery hangs by a silver chain from her wrist.

"That is so," Armand replies. "We see no reason that the Opera cannot be performed as it was written and rehearsed. We would, of course, revert to the original intention of Piangi singing the part of Don Juan."

"He is well? There was some concern…" Christine inquires. Her frock is a blue cotton day dress with a double-layered pleated skirt highlighted by blue and green plaid panels on the skirt and bodice. It boasts a high collar and long sleeves piped with the same plaid. A beige straw bonnet decorated with blue velvet ribbons sits atop her head, tied with a silk bow under her chin.

The women pass in front of the managers and take a seat at the brown horsehair settee situated across from the leather-topped Egyptian Revival partners desk that dominates the room. Heavy wooden bookshelves displaying books and other manuscripts tossed in haphazardly complete the decor.

"Yes, he is fine…fine. He was embarrassed at becoming, um, ill and needing the, um, understudy to step in at such short notice," Firmin chimes in. "It was unfortunate that the, um, understudy was not fully rehearsed and the accident with the pyrotechnics occurred."

Adele and Christine give one another a side eye, then return their attention to the two very uncomfortable men.

"May we say, Mlle. Daae, that we are very happy that you suffered no injury in the ensuing chaos," Armand adds.

"Thank you, monsieurs," Christine responds. "It was quite an ado, I must say."

"May I ask what word you have of this _understudy_ '" Adele queries.

"We asked him to meet with us, but were advised that he is too embarrassed at the occurrence to return to the Opera."

"Embarrassed?" Christine repeats.

"But he has such a magnificent voice…" Adele interjects.

Christine covers her smile with her hand and coughs lightly.

"Indeed, but he insisted…felt he had better opportunities in Italy," Armand states.

"We, of course, had to agree. One cannot obstruct the career of an artist," Firmin concurs. "So much angst and upset to the cast, crew and, we must not forget, the public."

"Of course," agrees Adele. "So you have no intention of dealing with the man any further?"

"None," says Armand with sincerity.

"Definitely not," Firmin shakes his head resolutely. "We wished him well and bon voyage on his journey to, um, Belgi…Italy."

"What if he should return and wishes to participate in some other capacity?" asks Christine.

Both men's eyes grow in size and threaten to burst from their heads.

"Such as?" Armand ventures to ask, swallowing hard.

"Oh, perhaps as the Artistic Director?"

"The O.G.? Artistic Director?" Firmin blurts out. Armand grabs him by the arm.

"Monsieurs, please stop this charade," Adele suggests. "We both understand the story that you wish to put forth and are totally agreeable to supporting you."

Both men sigh and retire to the walnut wood chairs upholstered in brown leather that service their desk. "Thank you," they breathe. "About the O.G…" Armand continues.

"We can hold that discussion in abeyance for now," Christine responds. "You need have no concern about him."

"He is gone?" They both ask, eyes alight with hope.

"He is of no concern to you," Christine repeats, her tone cold and final.

"Are we in agreement then, gentlemen?" Adele inquires.

"Yes, yes, of course." They nod vigorously.

There is a knock on the door.

"Who could that be?" Armand asks Firmin. "Were we expecting anyone else?

Firmin shakes his head no.

Adele rises to open the door.

Raoul stands outside and is taken aback at seeing her face him. He has repaired his appearance from the previous evening. His tan plaid suit is well cut and he wears a beaver felt bowler hat that reflects his wealth and position.

"M. le Vicomte," she says and steps aside to allow him entry into the room.

"M. le Vicomte," the managers chorus.

He tips his hat before removing it.

"Raoul, what are you doing here?" Christine asks. Her back stiffens, prepared for another battle. She folds her hands in her lap to steady them. She rubs her ring finger, relieved that she accepted Nadir's suggestion that he retain the black diamond for a short time longer.

Raoul rushes to her, tossing his hat aside and falls to his knees in front of her. "I must admit that I followed you here. Forgive me, but I had to speak with you," he pleads. "We were not allowed to be alone last night." He turns to frown at Adele.

"Raoul, this is totally inappropriate," Christine states. He body is pushed against her knees so that she cannot move. Her face is flushed – she does not know where to look.

The managers stand and fiddle with their hands, obviously embarrassed. "Would you like us to leave, Monsieur le Vicomte?"

"No, no, of course not," Raoul stands up and dusts off his trousers. "I apologize." He turns to Christine. "May I speak with you alone? For just a moment? Outside the door in the hallway?"

Christine looks to Adele, who shakes her head no, but says, "That is up to you, Christine." Worry fills her eyes as she looks at Raoul and back to Christine.

After a moment of thought, Christine agrees, "Very well, Raoul, but I am not certain that you will hear anything other than that which you already know." She stands up and moves to the door. Turning to Adele, she says, "Perhaps you can finalize our contracts with the Monsieurs. Five minutes?"

Adele nods.

Raoul holds the door for Christine and they step into the hall.

* * *

Erik and Nadir move swiftly through the stone passage to the lake. "Did you reset the traps?" Nadir asks.

"No, only the doors. Once you left with Christine, I had to follow."

"Praise be to Allah"

With both men handling the poles, they make quick work of crossing the lake.

They bank the skiff and hurry up to the Opera House. Their lanterns reveal Adele fumbling toward them through the darkness, holding only a candle.

"Adele?" Both men call out.

"Come quickly," she urges. "Raoul has taken Christine."

"What? How?" Erik demands.

"We must go to the roof, I am sure that is where he is taking her," Adele says.

"Yes, I suspect that is so. Follow me." Erik indicates a passage to their right. "This will bring us to the roof more quickly than trying to follow them up the stairways."

Nadir takes Adele's arm to assist her.

"What happened?" he asks, taking the candle and tossing it to the ground.

"Raoul came to the office and literally begged to speak with her alone. She did not want to, but…"

"You did not stop her?" Nadir accuses. He stops short to glare at her. "After what happened last night?"

"Too many people are telling her what to do. I told her it was her decision."

Erik turns to stare at her as well, his eyes blazing. "You? You are always instructing – always. This is when you allow someone to act of their own volition? When danger is apparent?"

"I did not think her would hurt her."

"Correct. You did not think." Shaking his head, Erik commands, "Keep moving."

"She said five minutes, but I went out immediately after they left," she defends herself. "They were gone. I found this, so knew something was wrong." She holds out Christine's bonnet. "I went immediately through her dressing room to get you. She showed me how to open the mirror when she returned to the Opera House last night."

"So they do not have much of a lead?"

"No."

"That is something, I suppose."

* * *

"Where are we going?" Christine demands. She tries to pull her arm from Raoul's grasp, but his grip is too strong.

"Back to where you loved me." His voice is distant and continues on his course to the rooftop.

A shiver runs up her spine. The crazed look in his blue eyes when he grabbed her is now determined and unyielding.

"I still love you," she argues.

"But not as you love him." he sneers. "That is what you told me after he tried to kill me – you loved him." He turns to look at her – his eyes as fearsome as Erik's. "He tried to kill me," he screams at her. "And you chose him. I loved you. I would have died for you." Tears flow down his cheeks.

 _Erik, help me._

"Raoul" she cries aloud. "We can talk. Please. This is crazy."

"What are you going to do? Kiss me?"

Her heart is beating wildly. She feels faint. "Raoul, I cannot breathe. Please stop." She is filled with terror – this is not how it was with Erik – she was complicit, whether he was aware of it or not.

What bizarre irony is this, not one day has passed and two different men are dragging her off in the name of love. One down to his hell, the other up – to a rooftop. Then down…to death – their death?

"Let me go. This is not the answer." He tugs at her and she falls. Her shoulder twists. She groans in pain.

He refuses to respond, simply trudges up the stairs dragging her behind him. She succeeds in getting her feet under her and works to keep up.

"Raoul, you are hurting me. My shoulder." She grabs at his arm with her free hand, hoping to pull him back.

Without warning, he stops. They are at the top of the stairs.

The sky is a sparkling blue, the rooftop as she remembered – their haven, or so they thought. The place where they plighted their troth. Although she repeatedly told him the engagement was false, they both believed it for a short while. Had Erik truly known of Raoul's weakness? Why had she not known? Perhaps she had.

"Remember, Christine?" Raoul asks – his tone wistful. "I allayed your fears about the Angel of Music? I promised that I would take care of you, protect you from him, but you betrayed me."

"I am so sorry, Raoul," she says quietly. "That was never my intent. I was alone and confused. You were my childhood friend."

"Why do you keep saying that?" he demands. "I told you that I loved you. I wanted you to need me."

"But _I_ never told _you_ that I loved you. I do not want to need anyone." He releases her and she collapses to the floor of the roof, exhausted from the climb and her fear. She rubs her right arm and shoulder and cringes, the pain is greater than any she has ever experienced.

Raoul reaches down to grab her hand, but she pulls back and scoots away. "Do not touch me," she growls. "We have talked of this. You wanted to take my life, my singing from me. You wanted to own me like chattel."

"No, that is not true," he argues. "I worship you. You would have anything you want."

"But music. You do not understand that my whole life has been about music. All I have ever wanted was music." She explains. "Were there no Erik, I would still want to sing. It is what you love about me, but you would take it from me."

Raoul shakes his head – rejecting her words. He seizes her left arm again and yanks her up. "Come, let us look at the view."

"No." She pummels his chest with her fist, twisting from side to side trying to loosen his grip.

He releases her arm, then grabs her by the hair, wrapping the curls around his right hand. His left arm encircles her waist. Lifting her, so only her toes reach the ground, he begins the trek to the roof's edge.

Reaching up with both hands to clutch the hand that entraps her hair, she bends forward, pulling him off balance.

He stumbles, nevertheless maintaining his hold. They tumble to the floor. At first landing on his right side, he rolls over to his back, arms flung above his head.

Her hair free of his grip.

Christine finds herself on her back, sprawled across his chest. Planting her feet and bending her knees, she fights to gain purchase on the rough floor. Her right elbow presses into his shoulder. Her left hand is on his chest. With a hard downward shove, she is able to flip herself over, her stomach covering his face.

Pressing her right hand into his shoulder, the other hand on the ground, she struggles to her knees and is able to wobble to an upright position. She kicks him in the side with her right foot.

He grabs her ankle, using it as ballast to pull himself up.

She pitches backward, her bustle breaking her fall. With both arms to brace herself, she is able to sit and pump her left leg at him. The heel of her boot strikes the bridge of his nose.

"What?" He lets her go and touches his brow. Blood. A long gash cuts across his forehead. "You bitch."

He staggers over to her and grabs her hair again.

" _Raoul."_

Raoul's head jerks. A voice in his left ear. _His_ voice.

" _Let her go, Raoul."_ The right ear.

The Vicomte twists around. Where is the voice coming from?

" _Now."_ Behind him.

Raoul releases Christine. He backs away from her, slowly turning to search the roof– knees bent, arms open to his sides, moving with stealth – prepared for attack.

Erik slips from the shadows at the top of the stairs. The silken string of catgut is twirled in the air and with a swift flick of his wrist, the Punjab lasso finds its way over Raoul's head.

Raoul touches the fine noose around his neck. Much finer and much deadlier than the heavy rope that ensnared him the night before – a lifetime ago.

"No, Erik," Christine cries out.

Nadir and Adele reach the roof and rush over to Christine. They watch Erik in silence, afraid to breath.

Erik's amber eyes flash at her. "Have no fear, my angel, while I should like to do so, I shall not kill him."

Wrapping the line around his hand as he saunters toward Raoul, he hisses "Will you behave?"

"Kill me, if you will."

"No – not that I care for your life," Erik sneers. "I promised a friend that I would only use this tool for self-defense – or in this instance, the defense of a loved one."

He takes in Raoul's bleeding wound. He turns to Christine, his eyes bright with admiration. "My dear, remind me to never cause you to lose your temper."

Raoul raises his hand.

"I would not do that," Erik says coldly.

Defeated, Raoul lowers his hand and closes his eyes.

Erik calls to Nadir. "Do you have your handcuffs?"

Nadir pulls a set of metal cuffs from his pocket and holds them up. Adele pulls a white handkerchief from her purse, touches Nadir's arm and hands it to him. He walks over to Raoul and pulls his arms behind his back and applies the cuffs.

Erik carefully lifts the lasso from Raoul's neck and pockets it. He examines the young man. "Nary a mark. You will have no scar from the lasso to mar your beauty." He takes the white linen cloth from Nadir and swabs Raoul's face, wiping away most of the blood. "However, you may have a memento from my lady."

"What should we do with him?" Nadir asks.

"Take him home," he replies. "His family can deal with him."

Adele rocks Christine to comfort her.

Erik joins them. Christine pulls away from Adele and throws herself into his arms. He holds her tightly, kissing the top of her head. Tears running down his cheeks.

"I am so sorry," Adele says, "I should never have left you alone with him."

Erik waves her off. "We all know where your heart lies."

"I called out to you," Christine says, touching his cheek. "He…he was going to…" She allows herself the tears she has been holding back.

Erik rocks her back and forth. "Yes, I heard you." He brushes his thumb across her cheeks, wiping away her tears. "You are safe now."

He helps Christine to stand, holding her close. Her arms are wrapped around his waist, head resting on his chest. He presses his lips against her hair and continues to rock her gently, humming softly.

Nadir begins walking Raoul towards the stairs. Adele looks to Erik for direction.

"Please go with Nadir. I am sure that le Comte will appreciate the gesture. It will also ensure that le Vicomte keeps to the truth."

He looks over to Raoul – amber eyes burning into pale blue ones. "Do not attempt to contact Christine again. Understood?"

Raoul's nostrils flare, but he nods acquiescence.

Erik returns his gaze, soft and warm now, to Christine. "Shall we go home?"

She raises her tear-filled eyes to him. "Yes, I would love to go home."

He kisses her on the forehead and lifts her up into his arms. They join the procession into the stairwell.


	7. Wounds

Adele hands Christine her bonnet. "I found this in the hall."

"Thank you, Madame. My effort at leaving a trail of crumbs, but it was the only crumb I had." Christine offers with a sad smile. "You can put me down, Erik, I'm fine."

"Are you sure?"

She nods.

"Let us see." He bends over to set her down lightly on the landing of the stairwell. "This is where we should separate, but I need to be certain that you can manage walking."

Christine takes a small step and loses her footing – her left ankle twists to one side. She grabs onto Erik's waistcoat and groans, tears springing in her green eyes. She raises her left hand to her right shoulder and flinches.

"Where is the pain?" Erik asks. He lifts her up again and walks down a few steps and sits her on the landing.

"My ankle, my shoulder…everywhere," she says with a grim smile.

He places one hand on her shoulder and holding her elbow, lifts it gently, releases it. Christine can continue to hold her arm up. "Good," he says, "It's not broken, but might be a tear – we will have to monitor it though. Any other pain?"

She holds up her left foot.

The heel of her boot has come loose. He removes the boot to check out the heel and chuckles.

"What is so funny?" Her tone curt.

Erik shows her the heel of the boot, there is blood on it. "Is that how he got the gash on his forehead?" He looks over to Raoul. "Raoul's head is so hard, it broke your shoe."

The sole of the boot is almost worn through. Also, despite what appears to have been a great effort to polish it, the leather of the toes and heels is badly worn. He is not surprised that the heel is coming off. These boots must be repaired for now, but he will have her fitted for another pair or two. Despite the clothing he has already purchased for her, which could be altered for fit – he avoided shoes, because they must be custom made.

He checks her ankle, pressing gently against the bones. She cringes. "Nothing broken, but no doubt sprained. It will have to be taped. Best to get you home so I can tend to your injuries."

"I have the tiger balm and liniment you gave me for the dancers' injuries in my office," Adele suggests.

"Of course, I forgot, the medical kit we put together. We can deal with his injury as well." Erik tilts his head towards Raoul. "Have him all patched up for delivery to his brother."

"He ordered me to stay away from you," Raoul says, his voice disconnected as if he is unaware of where he is.

"You should have listened," interjects Nadir. "The fact is, young man, you were intent on killing her and that is a crime. Consider yourself lucky that only we know that and Christine will not be pressing charges."

He shift his eyes to Christine. "Is that correct? No charges?"

She nods, avoiding looking at her former suitor.

"I cannot live without her, you know?" he continues in the flat tone.

"Then kill yourself," Erik comments coldly.

"Erik," Adele exclaims.

"I am only being honest," Erik replies. "Unlikely as that may seem, I do feel compassion for the fool. The same thought occurred to me when they left the music room. That my life was over without her. I wanted to die. Willed myself to die."

"But you let me go," Christine says.

"Yes. I did. And would again if that is what would make you happy."

"Truly?"

"Yes. You only came to me when you knew you were free." He brushes her cheek with his fingers. Then loudly, so Nadir and Adele can hear him, "I am capable of learning, despite the opinions of some people."

All but Raoul laugh at the comment.

She takes her shoe and, leaning on the railing, tries to put it on.

Erik removes it from her hand and sticks it in one of the pockets of his frock coat. He stoops down and lifting her right foot, removes that boot and stores it in the other pocket.

"How will I walk?"

"You will not be walking," he states. "I am carrying you."

Everyone casts a looks askance at his bold assertion. Nadir and Adele have the grace to cover their smiles with their hands.

"Think I cannot manage it, do you?" Erik retorts. "I am not a complete idiot. I took both boots off so that she could stand for a moment while I took breaks. Her ankle cannot take the strain as it is right now.

Raoul sniggers, "Like you carried her to your hell hole?"

Any attempts at levity disappear. The friends exchange concerned looks.

"Now we must quit chatting and get le Vicomte to his home, and you," lifting Christine's chin with a finger, "to yours."

"Are these handcuffs quite necessary?"

"Yes," is Nadir's curt response, cocking his head as he rolls his eyes.

"Phillippe will already know some of what happened. I left him a note with my intentions...and to say good-bye." He starts to sob.

"Oh, Raoul." Christine chances a look at the broken man who was her friend.

The older woman walks over to Raoul and touches him on the shoulder. "You did a very foolish thing. You have done a number of very foolish things. Love or obsession…" she sneaks a glance at Erik who is stares at her. "…often has us behave irrationally. Your brother loves you and I am certain he will be happy that your plan did not succeed. No one among us here wants you dead."

"Then it is most urgent that we move along. It is likely that le Comte is already on his way here." Erik says. "Nadir, why don't you lead the way? If he tries to escape, he will fall down the stairs and possibly break his neck, putting us all out of our misery. Adele, in the middle. I will bring up the rear." He scoops Christine up into his arms again.

"Erik…" Christine asks. "What if Phillippe sees you?

"Then he sees me. I am weary of living in the shadows."

* * *

Armand and Firmin pace their office. Heads down, rubbing their hands together.

"What should we do?" Armand asks.

"Stay here, I am certain they will return and everything will be explained."

"Do you think she meant it?"

"Who?"

"Mlle. Daae."

"Meant about what?"

"About the O.G. wanting to be the Artistic Director?"

Firmin stops short. "What made you think of that?"

"This whole business with the Vicomte. What he said about last night…"

"What did he say about last night? I was not listening."

Armand raises an eyebrow. "He said that Mme. Giry would not let him speak to Mlle. Daae alone last night."

"So?"

"So, she left with the O.G." He falls into his chair, pulls out a handkerchief and wipes his brow. "What if the Vicomte followed them after they ran off?"

Firmin frowns. "You think that there was some sort of to do?"

"Of course. Mlle. Daae implied as much."

"We will likely never know. My concern right now is the Opera, not gossip about love affairs." Firmin says. "Frankly, the Vicomte did not appear rational to me. I am concerned that the ladies will be all right."

"Where do you suppose they went?"

"Down the hall, perhaps upstairs to the boxes or the roof." He notices Adele's staff is balanced against the edge of the sofa. "Mme. Giry was so concerned, she forgot her walking stick."

"Perhaps we should try to find them."

A pounding on the door startles them. "Who now?" Armand answers the door.

Phillippe, Comte de Chagny faces him. His long face granite. Despite the elegant gray morning suit and top hat, his body suggests suffering - shoulders bent, his blue-gray eyes are rimmed in red, as though he had been crying. "Is my brother here?" He asks – no pleasantries.

Firmin comes toward him and indicates that he take a seat on the settee. "He _was_ here."

Phillippe shakes his head to sitting. "Was?"

"He left with Mlle. Daae. She came with Mme. Giry to discuss their contracts."

"And?"

Taking a deep breath, he takes a moment to choose his words – he does not wish to anger the Comte. He continues, "He was somewhat, um, distraught and requested Mlle. Daae speak with him privately in the hall. A moment later Mme. Giry followed them out."

"We have not seen them since." Armand offers. "He left his hat." Indicating the bowler, sitting on the partners desk.

"How long ago was this?"

The two men pull out their silver pocket watches. "About an hour ago," they answer together, affirming the time with each looking at the other's watch.

Firmin goes on, "They…the women, came her for a noon meeting and the Vicomte came a short while later."

"Thank you," Phillippe picks up Raoul's hat, starts to exit. "May I have access to the Opera House to look for them?"

"Of course. Of course," the managers say, "whatever you need."

Phillippe hardly re-enters the hallway, when he stops. He sees Raoul being led to a door, farther down the passageway, by the detective from last night - Khan. Following them are Mme. Giry and a masked man carrying Christine.

The managers follow him out, but return to their office in a rush, slamming the door shut when they see Erik.

"Raoul," Phillippe calls out and runs toward him.

Nadir and Adele step back allowing him access to his brother.

"Raoul, thank God you are safe." He embraces him. Tears flood his eyes.

Erik sets Christine down gently on the red carpet.

Nadir retrieves the key to the handcuffs and unlocks them, releasing Raoul to return his brother's hug.

Raoul falls against Phillippe's chest, resting his head on the older man's shoulder – he is crying as well. "You were correct, I should have let her go."

"I am so relieved that you are alive. That she…" his eyes take in Christine – shoeless, her dress torn and in disarray, the chestnut curls mussed and untidy. "That she is ali - all right, as well." He closes his eyes at the thought of what Raoul had planned for himself and Christine.

His eyes shift to Erik, who stands at Christine's side. His arm encircles her waist in support and protection. The amber eyes meet his – cold and offering nothing. He does not recall ever seeing eyes quite that color in a human being. Cats, most assuredly, but never in the face of a man.

The mask, though disconcerting, is not frightening – it actually creates a handsome, almost dashing visage. Of course, what the mask hides is likely the face of the monster that Raoul described so vividly. He had only seen it himself briefly last night at the performance, everything was moving so quickly, there was no time to focus on any one thing, much less the details of a face.

But here he was – the O.G. – the Phantom who brought so much turmoil to the Opera House. The man that the lovely Christine chose instead of his brother. The man that Raoul insisted wanted him dead, but, from all appearances is the savior of his life. Phillippe was well aware that monstrous faces did not equate with monstrous behavior. Beauty had its way of disguising malicious intent.

"What is this room?" he asks.

"My office," Mme. Giry responds. "We wanted to tend to Christine's injuries and Raoul's wound. A messenger was to be sent to advise you of his whereabouts." She opens the door and, with a wave of her hand, invites them to enter. "Please."

Her office is smaller than that of the manager's there is wooden desk, two side chairs – an off-white Chinoiserie armoire with painted panels of sage green depicting Oriental scenes dominates the otherwise plain room. Erik lifts Christine, carries her to the grey velvet chaise and sets her down. He stands behind her, his fingers rest lightly on the scrolled walnut edge of the longue, moving almost imperceptibly.

"Adele," he says. He indicates with his head that she sit next to Christine.

"Let me get her something to cover her feet." She opens a drawer in the desk and pulls out a pair of ballet slippers. Carrying them to Christine, she hands them to the young woman and sits down.

Nadir closes the door behind them, standing guard.

"He advised us of a note to you," Christine tells Phillippe.

"You are, um, well?" he asks tentatively. "Your foot?"

"A sprain, we believe."

"Anything else?" Phillippe asks gently. "He did not…?" He leaves the question dangling, closing his eyes in fear of what else might be said.

"No. She has a damaged shoulder, not broken, thankfully, and, most likely, a number of other bruises. When we arrived on the roof, he was dragging her by her hair," growls Nadir. "The cut on his forehead is where she kicked him, trying to get away."

Phillippe slaps Raoul.

He falls to his knees. "I am so sorry, Phillippe."

"Tell her of your sorrow," he commands. " _I_ am sorry. I thought I raised a gentleman – a gentle man."

"That was not the impression you gave last night – suggesting she was less than worthy of him," Nadir reminds him. "Suggesting that she was loose and could be bought and paid for."

Phillippe's gaze flickers to Erik. He is still as a statue, with the exception of his fingers and silent – the heated stare never falters. "I said nothing to indicate that he could abuse her, if that is what you are implying. If anything, she would have been well cared for."

Nadir looks over to Erik, who shakes his head. He places his hand on Christine's shoulder. She reaches across her chest to squeeze it.

"I am sorry, Christine," Raoul implores. "Please forgive me."

"Get up, Raoul," she says. "Let Madame deal with your wound."

He rises from his knees and sits in one of the chairs at the desk.

Adele opens the armoire and removes a small wooden casket from which she extracts a bar of Ivory soap, a bottle of "l'acide phénique," some small pads of cotton gauze and cloths, a spool of black thread and a needle. She fills a small bowl with water from the pitcher sitting on a wooden parson's table behind her desk. With deft movements, she cleans the wound, first with the soap and water to remove the dried blood, then dabbing it with the phenol. She threads the needle and pours some of the phenol over them and stitches up the gash.

Raoul hisses with each prick of the needle piercing his skin.

"I am sorry I have no brandy to offer for your discomfort," Adele says.

She looks up at Erik and he smiles.

"Our dancers often have blisters on their feet – other injuries and accidents happen as well. We…" she nods to Erik, "discovered that using Sir Lister's techniques to clean wounds so they did not get infected," she explains. "Having this little box in my office saved us many trips to the hospital for treatment."

She dabs the wound one more time. "The stitches can be removed in a week's time, ten days to be safe." She returns the medical items, with the exception of a small tin, a bottle of A.B.C. Liniment, the towels and a roll of elastic bandaging, to the casket and retakes her seat on the chaise.

"Can you wait a bit longer with your ankle and shoulder?" she asks Christine.

"Yes that will be fine."

"So," she begins, "I repeat the same question I asked last night: what would you like to know? Christine's needs must be addressed, she is the victim here, not your brother. We arrived at the end of the assault – stopped it, in fact." She puts her hand on Christine's knee. "She is the only one who can tell you what happened. Although your own eyes, can tell you much."

"Of course, I would not wish to cause Mlle. Daae any more pain or discomfort." He pulls a folded sheet of paper from a pocket inside his cutaway jacket and holds it up for them to see. "Raoul wrote to me what his intentions were. If you are willing to confirm what he has written, I will leave you be."

* * *

Christine looks up to Erik. She bites her lips and starts rocking back and forth – her body folding in on itself to the fetal position. Tears fall without her realization.

Erik moves around the chaise and kneels in front of her. He brings her hands to his mouth and kisses the white knuckles marred with tiny scrapes and dried blood, then envelopes them in his long fingers. "You do not have to listen to anything or say anything." His voice is soft, soothing.

"It is all right." Taking a deep breath and focusing on Erik's eyes, she inhales deeply. "I explained to both of you last night my feelings for Raoul and for Erik. Apparently Raoul was waiting for me to go out and followed us here. He interrupted our meeting and pleaded for me to talk to him." The words are staccato and issued without emotion.

She pulls her hands away from Erik and begins twisting them. He captures them again, holding them tightly in his.

"Look at me," he whispers. "Pour all your fear and rage on me. I deserve it as much as he does."

She searches his face.

"Tell me," he repeats.

"I tried to explain…that I loved him as a friend. But he just started pulling me away from the managers' office to the stairway. All I could think was that you would not know where I went. I realized that we were going to the roof.

"I fought him, but he just kept on. One of the times that I fell, he fell, too. I kicked him. It did not stop him. Nothing could stop him. He continued grabbing me. Dragging me by my shoulder. My ankle. My h-hair. He kept pulling my hair.

"I was so afraid," she sobs, her breast heaving trying to capture some air. Eyes flooded with tears, she fights to control the tremors that wrack her body.

Erik releases her hands and opens his arms exposing his chest. "Hit me."

She shakes her head.

He nods. "Hit _me_."

She pummels him with her fists – his chest, his shoulders, his arms, her body shifting with the effort of each thrust until she slumps down clinging to him.

Erik pulls her close, breathing rhythmically, rocking her gently. "Easy, easy."

Phillippe looks at Raoul with disgust. Nadir stares ahead, his dark eyes glistening. Adele moves closer to Christine on the chaise to rub the girl's back.

Christine regains control and sits back, focusing on Erik's eyes again. "Then I saw you. And Mr. Khan and Madame. It ended. Thank, God, it ended."

* * *

Erik shifts his position on the floor to face Phillippe, keeping hold of her waist and taking her hands in one of his. "Are you satisfied, M. le Comte?"

"Yes," Phillippe answers. "Mlle. Daae, I am so deeply sorry. I had no idea that my brother was so…troubled." He picks up the bowler and hands it to Raoul. He offers the letter to Christine. "You should have this. Under ordinary circumstances I would not release something of this nature to anyone, but you are entitled to it. Let us call it insurance – in the event my brother makes any advances toward you in the future that you do not welcome."

Erik raises an eyebrow.

"Yes, Monsieur, I do have some scruples," his smile does not reach his eyes. "I would also understand if you contacted the police, but judging from your earlier comments, that is not something you intend."

"No," Christine says taking the envelope from him. "Just go, please."

Phillippe takes Raoul by the arm and puts on his own top hat. He walks to the door – Nadir opens it for them to leave, then closes it softly behind them.

"Do you need some time to compose yourself?" Erik asks Christine. "This medical business can wait until you feel calmer."

"I just want this to be over," she replies. "I'm so tired. I just want to go home."

Adele gets up starts to repack the casket away to put it away.

"No," Christine says. "I might feel better with the injuries attended to."

"Perhaps a small brandy?" Adele offers.

"I thought you did not have any spirits," Nadir interjects.

"A white lie," Adele retorts. "Spoiled brat has suffered nothing, he could bear a few stitches in his thick head." She opens the armoire and brings out a silver tray holding cut crystal and silver aperitif decanter and four glasses. She pours a small amount of liquor into three of the glasses, serving Christine and Erik. She then pours some water from the pitcher into the fourth glass and hands it to Nadir.

He smiles at her consideration.

Picking up the third glass with the brandy, she toasts. "A vote sante."

"A vote sante," they reply.

"Never was a toast more sincere," comments Nadir.

Erik takes a small sip of his drink and hands the glass back to Adele. He retrieves the salve, liniment and bandage from the desktop. Returning to his kneeling posture, he removes her stocking and exclaims, "Your toes, my dear, what happened to your toes, your feet? They are all…mangled and scarred." He folds his hands over her damaged foot. "When did this happen? Did he do this to you? Are you in pain?"

Even with his mask intact, his eyes are full of shock.

Christine looks at Adele. They burst out laughing in both amusement and relief. The kind of hysterical laugh that often occurs after a crisis has passed and everyone realizes that they have survived.

"What?"

"The look on your face," she laughs. Then quiets. "Oh, my dearest man, this must be the look you see when your face is exposed to a stranger." She touches his exposed cheek. Her eyes search for Adele's and Nadir's, "We did not know. We could not know."

"What do you mean?"

"Your expression was one of horror. Perhaps not that severe, but definitely disgust and revulsion," Christine explains.

"That bad?"

"Indeed – that bad," she laughs again.

"I am sorry, I did not mean to offend. The appearance of your foot was such a shock, I was concerned for your pain, if there was any."

"Her toes…feet – and mine and Meg's – all the ballet girls, have the damage you found so abhorrent," Adele explains. "Christine's injuries are actually less severe than some because she has not been dancing since she was a young child. I began doing en pointe before the newer supported shoes came into being – we actually danced on our toe tips." Her eyes get dreamy. "The pain – the incumbent disfigurement – for the beauty of the elongated foot – the appearance of flying with no hard edges to inhibit the line of the jete – all worth it."

"Your feet?" Erik questions. "All ballet dancers have such horrid feet?"

Adele laughs has a bitter edge, "My feet, my knees, my hips. Why do you think I use a cane?"

"I thought it was a prop with which to keep us all in line."

"Hmmph – that, too," She looks around. "I seem to have misplaced it."

"You had it when we came here," Christine says.

"Must have left it with Messrs. Moncharmin and Richard," she sighs.

He returns his attention to Christine. "Well now that I know what has created this damage, I can deal with your more immediate injuries. He rubs the tiger balm into her ankle. "The menthol scent is very strong, but the heat will help heal the sprain." He replaces the stocking and wraps the bandage over it. "Do you want me to tape your toes?"

"No, they are all right for now, especially without the boots," she smiles down at him.

"You will have new boots. Adele, you also, and Meg."

"Erik, you are most kind, but Meg and I are fine."

"Perhaps, but you will have new shoes."

"You must be in pain as well," he says to Adele. "Can I tend to you as well?"

"No," I will tend to myself. "Thank you."

"What about me," asks Nadir. "Do I get new shoes?"

"Perhaps a new hat – a bowler."

Nadir rolls his eyes. The women laugh.

"Would you prefer that Adele treat your shoulder?" Erik asks Christine.

"No. You."

Their eyes lock.

"Nadir, could you accompany me to the Managers' office, we still need to finalize our contracts?" Adele asks. "I should also like to recover my _prop_."

"Of course," Nadir responds. "We will return when we are finished and see to helping you back to the apartment."

"I am sorry," Christine says, brushing her hand along his chin.

A quizzical look crosses Erik's face.

"For ever being afraid of how you looked. Until today, I had never experienced how it might be to be disliked because of some physical imperfection."

"I did not dislike you. I could never dislike you."

"But you saw ugliness and responded as most anyone would," she smiles. "I am so happy that I have mashed toes and calluses."

"I love you, Christine."

"I love you, Erik."

He moves behind her. Gathering her hair, he gently pushes it to one side, tucking the curls over her left shoulder. The hooks of the dress are dispatched and he lifts the fabric away from her, letting it fall onto her upper arms. Slipping the straps of her chemise down, the flesh of her back and chest are exposed. He notes the difference in the color and texture of their skin – his dry and yellowed – hers soft – the color of fresh cream. A few small moles and a tiny birthmark in the shape of a leaf break the plain of her smooth flesh.

She catches her hair and holding it in one hand, crosses her other arm to keep the dress from falling completely down to her waist.

Singing softly, he massages her right shoulder with the liniment, gently smoothing it down her arm and across her back to the other shoulder. His ministrations extend to the muscles reaching from her shoulders, to the back of her neck, gently pushing his thumbs into the hollows at the base of her skull.

"Relax."

Erik runs his fingers up through her curls, pressing them up against her scalp, gently massaging her ears and temples, then over her crown and forehead – coaxing the tension from her muscles.

Christine moans.

The moment shattered by a knock on the door.

"Noooo," Christine utters.

"One moment," Erik calls out. He places a gentle kiss on the top of her head then swiftly replaces the straps of her chemise, pulls the dress up to once again cover her shoulders and fastens the hooks.

"Enter."


	8. Resolutions

RESOLUTIONS

The door opens. Phillippe enters – harried and out of breath. His clothing is askew and hair mussed – hat nowhere to be seen. Blood drips from his nose, a few spatters dot the collar of his gray coat. "Is Raoul here?"

"No," Erik responds. "What happened to you?"

"We had gotten to the lobby. I dropped his arm for a moment. He got behind me and grabbed my shoulders. Pushed me to the floor." He touches his upper and feels the wetness. "I must have hit my head when I fell."

Erik grabs one of the towels and hands it to him.

"Did you see where he went?" Christine asks. She folds her arms around herself and looks at Erik, eyes full of anxiety.

"No." Phillippe shakes his head. He presses the towel against his nose to check the flow of blood. "By the time I regained my wits, he was gone."

Erik takes off his frock coat and wraps it around Christine's shoulders.

"I suspect he may be headed back to the roof," he says. "Go to the managers' office and get Khan and Adele. Ask her to come back to stay with Christine, then Khan can guide you to the stairway to the roof. I will go ahead now."

"Do we need Khan? I can go with you"

"Christine needs to have someone with her, and I may need both you and Khan – depending upon Raoul's state. Go now."

With that, he moves swiftly out the door.

"Please hurry, Monsieur, I do not want to be here alone," Christine pleads.

He nods and leaves, closing the door behind him.

Pulling Erik's jacket tightly around herself, she sings:

 _Ave Maria_

 _Gratia plena_

 _Maria Gratia plena_

 _Maria Gratia plena_

 _Ave, ave dominus_

 _Tecum_

 _Benedicta tu in mulieribus_

 _Et benedictus_

 _Benedictus fructus ventris tui_

 _Ventris tui, Jesus_

 _Ave Maria_

 _In hora mortis, mortis nostrae_

 _Mortis nostrae_

 _Ave Maria_

* * *

Phillippe pounds on the door of the managers' office.

Armand swings the door open. He steps back aghast at Phillippe's appearance. "Le Comte, what happened?"

"Raoul attacked me and ran off. M. Erik is looking for him. He wants Adele to sit with Christine, and you, M. Khan, to go to the roof again. I am to assist you."

Khan and Adele follow Phillippe out the door. She turns back to Moncharmin and Richard and shrugs. "I will return when I can."

They give her puzzled looks.

"And try to give you some explanation for all this," she adds. "You are being most kind." Then goes down the narrow paneled hallway to her office and Christine. The men have already disappeared into the passageway leading to the back stairs.

The managers turn to one another. "The roof? Again? Mon Dieu," exclaims Armand.

"Let us hope this will not ruin us."

* * *

Adele reaches the door, she hears Christine singing and stops so as not to disturb the stirring sound of the girl's voice.

As always, the voice her charge has developed enthralls her. The ease with which she breathes out the high notes in perfect pitch, and the drama and depth of the low tones are truly remarkable. It is no wonder she has captured the souls of two very different men, not to mention the audiences at the opera. She loved Meg's father dearly. When he died she was bereft, but it never occurred to her that she should die as well.

She can understand Erik's position, to some extent. She suspects that Christine is his first and only love. Their own bond is not such that he would speak of love and romance, but his incredible shyness around women and blunt tongue do not suggest that he has even been involved intimately with another woman, even if only to satisfy his physical needs.

The level of control extends to his anger. She wonders what he would result if he ever erupted. She supposes that last night might be a good indication. It is likely that Christine and, possibly, Nadir are the only people to have experienced that part of him. If Raoul is to be believed, he viewed the dark side of the Phantom as well, and survived. She hopes that Erik will continue to maintain his seeming new sense of balance.

Raoul, on the other hand, is a child and behaved as one – coddled and spoiled. This latest temper tantrum is evidence of that. If he did reach the roof, she doubts that he would do much other than cry.

The final note is sung. Adele opens the door.

Christine starts at the sound, then relaxes when she sees Adele. "I do not want Raoul to die, Adele."

Adele rushes to the chaise, takes the girl in her arms, cradling her head. "Erik will find him. The boy is without a rudder, so he is adrift. That is not your fault."

"I had no idea."

"None of us did, although we might have suspected by his determination to have Erik killed. Whatever he might have done, we do not just kill people."

"In the world where Erik used to live, that was exactly how things were." Christine pulls away from Adele and tilts her head, a thought occurring to her. "Do you know M. Khan well?"

Adele flushes. "He comes to the Opera House often."

"I see."

"What do you _see_?"

"I see that you do not wish to discuss it," Christine laughs. "I just wondered if he ever talked about Persia – how things were for both himself and Erik. I know a bit."

"Those things are best learned from Erik, I think," Adele tells her. "In good time, God willing, you will have a lifetime to discover one another." She fusses with the younger woman's hair, tucking it behind her ears. The pins that Christine had used to style it this morning were gone. "Your song was lovely, I am certain the Virgin heard your prayer," she smiles at the girl.

"I do not know much about the history of the song, I just know that it is beautiful and a special prayer," Christine admits. "Do you have a ribbon or cord so that I can tie my hair back?"

Adele finds a piece of black satin ribbon in the drawer of her desk and takes it over to Christine. "But you attend Mass with us on Sundays?"

"Oh, I enjoy going to services, it is very like Opera – grand churches, gorgeous music and beautiful vestments, but I am not Catholic. My family were Lutheran, but even so, we were not very religious. Music was our faith – our way to deal with life's joys and sorrows."

"So you sing?" Adele smiles.

"Yes." She cinches her locks into a loose ponytail. "This will have to do."

"It looks fine." Adele presses the back of her hand to Christine's forehead. "No fever, that is good. Are you in any pain?"

She shakes her head. "I am just weary," Christine says. "My body feels so heavy."

"Then the liniment is working. It has a small amount of chloroform in it that is what is making you sleepy. It also has remedies in it to deal with trauma and swelling," Adele explains. "Erik used it to help calm you and allow you to rest."

Christine smiles sleepily, "He is quite an amazing man. How could I have ever been frightened of him?"

"He can be quite frightening when he is of a mind to be. That and human nature, I am afraid, the face is the first thing we see of someone and proceed from there," Adele replies.

"Here, let me help you recline on the chaise. Rest your eyes. If you fall asleep that is all to the good. I will be here with you and will wake you when I know of anything."

She retrieves a small knitted throw from the armoire, tossing it over the Christine's legs, she helps her get settled. Satisfied that she has done what she can to put her at ease, Adele pulls out her rosary of jet beads from her pocket. Kissing the silver crucifix, she makes the sign of the cross: _In Nomine Patre, et Filius, et Spiritu Sanctum, Amen_ and begins her recitation of the prayer. Moving her fingers along the beads she recites the Apostle's Creed, Our Fathers and Hail, Marys asking protection for the lives of the men – for all of them.

* * *

Raoul struggles to climb the back stairs, his legs have turned to lead. Despite his youth, he is soft and out of shape. His stamina cannot carry him and he collapses, sobbing on the second floor landing.

His hands are scabbed and starting to bruise from his struggles with Christine. His side is sore where she kicked him and his head throbs with a dull ache. He touches the wound that Adele stitched up – it is secure, there is no new bleeding, but stings nonetheless.

"My God, what have I done?"

" _You went mad,"_ says a voice, a beautiful male voice.

 _His_ voice. How could such an ugly face produce such a glorious sound?

Was it really his voice? Oh, yes, he does that trick. He fooled me with it earlier.

"I hear you, Phantom monster of the Opera," Raoul cries out. "Come, kill me" he demands. "As you said – put everyone out of their misery." He pulls himself to a sitting position. "Come, kill me. Please. Come. And. Kill me." His body is wracked with sobs.

"I have no desire to kill you. Nor do I wish you dead anymore," Erik states, appearing just down the stairs from where Raoul sits.

Raoul jumps at the sight of the tall masked man. "Then help me to the roof, so I can throw myself off," Raoul pleads. "You hate me, so help me to do that at least."

"Actually, I do not hate you." Erik sits down next to him on the stairs. "Hate requires passion. Trust me when I say I could have killed you any number of times for suitable than this and less dangerous for me. Taking your life now would have me jailed. Besides, falling from the roof would not guarantee your demise. It is all very romantic, but not terribly practical."

"What am I to do?" Raoul asks. "I love her. I thought she loved me. I thought I was saving her from you. How could she want you?"

"I have asked myself the same thing many times during this most extraordinary day."

"Have you ever wanted to kill yourself?" Raoul asks.

"Even last night when I thought Christine was gone, I wanted to die, but would not kill myself. I would have been content to have the mob beat me to death, but I could not take my own life.

Only one time did I consider that ignoble deed. I was thirteen."

* * *

His thoughts wander back to the gypsy camp.

 _The odd group had become a family of sorts. Once he had a modicum of freedom and respect, if you could call it that, it was not horrible._

 _Life with the gypsies had become a routine like any other. The glaring and the screams of the women who came to see him in his cage were no longer a concern. He had become inured to the hatred. Even at his young age, he recognized that he was a mirror for the self-hatred most people walk around with._

 _One night there was a wedding, a large gypsy wedding. There were colorful costumes, particularly the bride dressed in a gown that rivaled royalty, loud music and an abundance of inebriants. Everyone was laughing and enjoying themselves._

 _It was that night when he realized that this would never be a part of his life. The unfettered happiness being exhibited was for others, companionship was for others. These simple normal expressions of human life were not available to him. Even these vulgar, vile gypsies could know these joys, but his face denied that to him. Inside he was human just as everyone else. But that dimension was never recognized._

 _Bearing the emptiness of that future felt impossible._

* * *

"I lived with gypsies and stole some poison from the wise woman's tent when everyone else was occupied with their pleasures. As I opened the bottle of the potent liquid and prepared to ingest it, my mind spit forth a memory. That of the priest who believed my soul was inhabited by devils and would exorcise them. Of course, the only devils damning me were those in the hearts of the people who blamed me for a sin I had not committed. He told me that suicide and murder were equal in the eyes of God. I would suffer alone for all eternity if I took my own life. Murder could be confessed and atoned. There was no atonement for self murder.

"My options were: be alone for a lifetime or for eternity. I chose a lifetime. At least I was not a cripple or, worse, stupid, or both. I could use my cursed face, my music and my other gifts to earn money and provide for myself.

"I had hoped to escape the camp through my death, but as fate would have it, I would actually leave it through the death of another. My keeper was drunk and found me outside of my tent against his orders. My punishment would be his taking pleasure in my body. His punishment was dying by my hand.

"So, you were correct in calling me a murderer."

"That was not murder, you were protecting yourself. Any court of law…"

Erik holds up his hand. "You know nothing of the laws of that world."

"I am sorry," Raoul says.

"For what?"

"For what you suffered. For my being a shallow prig," he admits. "My brother raised me to have scruples and to be compassionate."

"Yet you possess neither quality," Erik responds coolly.

Raoul is taken aback. He wonders if, perhaps, he has too easily accepted Erik's civility, if that is indeed what it this is. "What do you mean?"

"In all the hullabaloo that you created in your desire to show which? Scruples or compassion – for whom, for what? You appear to have forgotten the first time you attempted to take my life."

* * *

 _Raoul had sensed someone watching him from the window. That was impossible, it must be a cat, no man could climb to the first floor balcony. The house had been built to prevent just that sort of intrusion._

 _He had stripped down to his drawers, so the possibility of someone observing him was particularly abhorrent. His Lefaucheux revolver sat on his nightstand. He grabbed the gun and drawing back the curtains, came face to face with Erik._

 _The masked man quickly jumped down from the balcony and began walking casually down the street. Unafraid of him, despite the presence of the weapon._

" _Put that away before you hurt someone," the voice whispered in his ear._

 _Enraged and without thinking, Raoul pulled the trigger. Erik's back was to him. He did not care. Good sportsmanship and honor did not extend to ghosts. Did the foul beast flinch? He was not certain. One…two more shots. But the dark figure just continued walking and disappeared into the night._

* * *

"Thankfully, your aim was bad – it appears that you also lack the ability to hit a target," Erik says. "You did graze me with the first bullet - damaged my favorite cloak – the other two went wide."

"Dear, God. I had been drinking with friends, disconsolate over Christine. Then you appeared."

"You shot when my back was to you," Erik continues. "I was less than human to you then, am I more a man now? It appears not. You told the police to shoot to kill – an unarmed man who had harmed no one."

"What do you want?" Raoul asks nervously. There is nowhere to run, even if he had the strength. Despite the age difference, he knew that he was no match for Erik.

"Nothing," Erik responds. "My intention was to simply remind you. You are one of many who want to do good, but only destroy those whom they believe they are helping – like my friend the priest."

Raoul understands the implication of Erik's words. "I do love Christine," he insists. "I do not know what came over me."

"As I said, you believed you knew better than she what she wanted."

"You loved her enough to let her go."

"Yes." It was more than that, though – he had discovered his soul – but the boy need not know that.

"I did not. I was going to kill both of us," he sighs. "That is not love."

"No."

"What am I to do?"

"I neither know nor care." Erik lifts his head. "Your brother will be here in moments."

Phillippe and Nadir appear at the foot of the stairs – breathless from their journey. Both are taken aback by the vision of Raoul and Erik sitting side by side.

"Raoul, you are all right?" asks Phillippe.

"In a manner of speaking. I did not have the wherewithal to climb again to the roof. This was as far as I could go."

"And you, Erik?" asks Nadir.

"Never better. You know how I enjoy running up and down the stairs of this noble edifice." He stands up and stretches his long limbs.

"M. Erik, I am sorry, I do not know your surname," Phillippe inquires.

"Most do not. Saint-Rien."

"Once I get Raoul settled, M. Saint-Rein, may we have a meeting to discuss some business?"

Erik and Nadir exchange a look.

"I owe you for my brother's life," he continues.

"Many in the Asias believe that if you save someone's life you become responsible for that life," Erik comments. "I do not wish to be responsible for him." He nods to Nadir. "This man saved me and now he will not leave me alone."

Nadir harrumphs. "I have never begrudged you, despite your obstinacy."

"Well, I should like to repay you in some way that you feel would give you benefit." Phillippe continues. "I am sure Raoul will agree at some point, if not now."

"Whatever you think best, Phillippe. My thoughts are to take up my Naval Commission," Raoul says. "Perhaps serving and leaving Paris would be a good thing."

"We can certainly look into it," Phillippe agrees. "For now, let us go home. This time I hope it will be without incident."

"I am sorry," Raoul says. "Were you injured?" He notes the bloody towel.

"Bloody nose and likely some bruises," Phillippe responds. "Military service will be a good place for you to utilize your aggression and teach some discipline.

"Let us go," says Nadir. "This endless day is wearing on all of us. I, for one, am starving."

"Adele is with Christine?" Erik asks.

"Yes, I believe so. We went on ahead," he answers. "Since the person we feared would do her harm is here, I'm certain that the petite Mam'selle is fine. They are likely extremely concerned, however, so the sooner we return the better for all concerned."

Phillippe gives Raoul a hand getting up and starts the trek to the front of the Opera House. "Please let me know when we might meet, Monsieur. I am serious."

"I will send you a message."

"Good," Phillippe smiles. "Come, Raoul. Let us leave these people in peace."

* * *

Erik knocks softly as he opens the door of Adele's office. He and Nadir quietly enter the office.

Adele completes her prayer, makes the sign of the cross and puts her rosary away. She holds a finger up to her lips to keep the men quiet and shifts her eyes to Christine – sound asleep on the chaise. She still has Erik's coat covering her shoulders and the hand knit throw that Adele placed over her.

"The medication worked," she advised. "Poor thing must have been terrified." She smiles down on the girl. "What happened just now?"

"The Vicomte's desire to die was at par with his lack of physical prowess. I found him collapsed on the second balcony," Erik says.

"They looked like old friends, sitting on the stairs chatting when le Comte and I arrived," Nadir laughs.

"Hardly that," Erik harrumphs. "Phillippe took him, this time he will keep closer watch on him. The boy needs care, he seems intent on killing someone." He leans against the desk and sighs as he gazes at Christine, her breathing steady. "I do not know what I might have done, had he succeeded."

"Well, no point in thinking that," Adele says.

"What do you supposed Phillippe wants to speak with you about?" Nadir asks.

"Le Comte wants to meet with Erik?" Adele questions.

"Yes. Perhaps a private hanging?" Erik laughs.

"You gave him your surname…why?" queries Nadir.

"Curiosity, I suppose," Erik answers. "I would be interested in finding out what information is available about me – what he might discover." He shrugs. "I want to live a life in the light, but need to know what sort of issues could prevent that happening."

"You trust him?" asks Adele.

"Strangely, yes, I do," Erik replies. "He gave Christine Raoul's letter of his intentions of murder and suicide. He also knows that his brother is unbalanced and that we know that as well. More importantly, I do believe he is a man of honor."

"I agree," interjects Nadir. "He is a snob, but from all that I know of him, he is a good and honorable person."

Christine is rousing, her eyes open to slits and a yawn escapes her mouth. She raises her right hand to shield it and cringes. "Ouch."

Erik rushes to her side. "Is it your shoulder?" He touches it gently.

She nods – a sleepy smile curves her lips. "I am so happy to see your face." Then she recalls why he left. "Is Raoul…"

"He is fine. Phillippe it taking him home." His eyes locked on her face.

"Thank God."

Nadir chuffs, "Thank Erik. Although he may think that is the same thing."

"Nadir," Adele exclaims.

"It is the truth."

Erik and Christine do not respond to the friendly banter of Adele and Nadir.

"Can I go home now?" she asks him.

"With me?" Adele asks.

"No. With Erik. I do not care about gossip. People are probably already gossiping about what happened last night."

"Are you certain?" Erik asks.

"It is about the only thing I am certain about right now," she replies. Turning to Nadir, she asks, "May I have my ring back, please?"

"Of course, of course," Nadir answers. He pulls both rings from his pocket, kissing Mitra's ring he returns it to his waistcoat, then hands the black diamond to Christine.

"Thank you," she says and gives the ring to Erik.

His eyes question her.

She holds out her left hand. "Ask me."

His breath catches. "Here? Now?"

"You asked last night when we were on stage before very near two thousand strangers, why not now – in front of our friends?"

Adele smiles at Nadir. He walks over to her and puts a hand on her shoulder.

Erik gets down on one knee and looks into his beloved's eyes. "Christine – will you marry me?" Tears fall silently down his cheeks.

"Yes," she whispers.

He slips the rare stone on her finger, then kisses her hand.

"I love you, Erik. Wherever I am, I want you to be with me."

She leans into him as he lifts his lips to hers. Her hand brushes his uncovered cheek as she ends the kiss.

"Now I want to go home," she commands. "We can discuss the contracts tomorrow, Adele. You can come by for luncheon with Nadir – if that is convenient for both of you. It is time for some normalcy."

Erik stands up and he, Adele, and Nadir respond to the authority of the young woman, "Yes…indeed…luncheon…of course…sounds perfect. Noon?" Their voices overlap.

Erik removes the throw, folds it and hands it to Adele. He makes certain that his jacket is secure around Christine's shoulders, noting that her boots are still in the pockets. "I have to stop storing your clothing in mine, perhaps I should begin carrying a tote wherever we go," he comments.

Nadir laughs. "My dear, Christine, you have undone in a few hours what a lifetime of rejection created – Erik made a joke – intentionally."

"Who was joking?" he retorts. "Would you care to assist us? I think traveling through the interior stairs would best serve us and I would appreciate your guidance with a lantern."

Nadir feigns alarm. "Now he is asking for help…my dear, you are the magician."

Erik rolls his eyes, "Yes or no?"

"Yes, of course, yes. My life has become one of overseeing your actions despite your bad temper, do you think I would refuse a cordial request?" He feigns a bow. "Adele, I will be back shortly, perhaps we can have some dinner. I am sure Meg would like to know what has been happening."

As Adele nods her acquiescence to Nadir, she notices Christine's bonnet on the floor next to the chaise. "Christine, your bonnet."

"Two totes," he sniffs. Erik takes the hat from Adele and hands it to Christine, he lifts her into his arms and walks to the door. Nadir opens it and follows them down the narrow paneled hall to Christine's dressing room.

Adele closes the door behind them, then pulls out her rosary and kisses it. "Thank you."

 **A/N - The lyrics for the Ave Maria are written as sung in the Schubert version.**


	9. Inheritance

INHERITANCE

Nadir followed Erik as he carried Christine to the settee and gently set her down. "Is there anything I can assist you with now?"

"Perhaps prepare some tea? I think we could all use some," Erik responds looking to Christine for agreement.

"Tea sounds wonderful, but what I would really like it to get out of these clothes," Christine responds. "Everything is so uncomfortable and twisted out of place on my body. My undergarments…." She stops and blushes.

"I will prepare the tea," Nadir comments as he exits to the kitchen.

Erik removes his frock coat from around her shoulders and lays it over the back of the settee. One of the boots falls from his pocket – the one with the broken heel. "I will mend this and when your ankle is better, you will have a new pair."

"I have others at Madame's. Perhaps I can write her a note to bring my things here tomorrow?"

"Yes, of course. I attempted to compile a complete wardrobe for you, but I am certain that there are any number of items that are lacking. While considering your needs, I failed to consider you, I fear." He lifts her up and carries her to her bedroom and sets her down on the bench at the end of the bed.

She slumps down, pressing her hands against the satin brocade cushion. "Can you help me disrobe? I am so weary."

Taking her hands, he helps her stand. She turns so that he can undo the hooks on her dress. The dress falls to the floor – a petticoat and tournure follow. He then takes on the challenge of the ribbons that fasten her corset – when undone, it joins the dress. She is left in her combination.

Erik gathers the discarded clothing and lays it over the vanity chair. He walks over to the armoire and removes a white batiste de soie undress with a ruffle of lace and small pink satin ribbons for her to don.

"I shall have the managers hire you as my dresser, you are becoming quite adept at helping me remove my garments," Christine jokes as he helps her with the wrapper.

His fingers begin to tremble, the realization of what he has been doing becoming conscious. He pulls his hands away, as if burned – they drop to his sides. "Would you like a bath? I pay to have hot water available," he asks.

She shakes her head, no. "Not now. As for Moncharmin and Richard, I suggested that you might wish to be the Artistic Director for the Opera, now that you have been vindicated."

"You did what?"

"I just said that you…"

"Yes, I heard that." His discomfort is palpable. His eyes dart around the room as if looking for an escape route. Perspiration beads his forehead.

"Are you all right," Christine asks.

"Yes, I'm fine."

"You are shaking." She takes a step toward him, limping slightly on her injured foot.

He rushes to help her. "I think I might have a stick of some sort to help you walk more easily."

"Erik, what is wrong?" She moves to stand in front of him, taking his shoulders in her hands.

He refuses to meet her eyes, shifting his gaze from the floor to the shadowed ceiling. "I have longed my entire life to be freed from my solitude. Now that my desire appears to have come to fruition, I find that it is difficult for me to be entirely open to it…to you." The confession frees him of his tension, he relaxes enough to look at her face. His eyes full of questions.

"Forgive me," she says. "I do understand. I had my father with me all of my life, but these past several years have been very difficult, learning to trust virtual strangers. My love for you grew quietly in my heart, but once I was aware of how deeply I felt – how you felt, I suppose I wanted to make up for lost time. I did not mean to press you to do something you are unready for. I am so happy to be here with you."

They laugh at the mist that has formed in both their eyes, each wiping away the tears on the other's cheeks.

"Well, then, my dear, we best get on with this being together." He leans in to her and kisses her gently on her upraised lips. "I will see how Nadir is faring with our tea and perhaps you would like to complete your toilette." He helps her to the bathroom. "I think you will have everything you need. The door will be ajar. Call when you are ready."

* * *

"Thank you."

He gives a slight bow and leaves.

A light chuckle escapes Christine's lips. "He is so shy."

The bathroom is more elegant than anything she has ever experienced. Walls of fine marbled stone. A commode, sink and soaking tub and a chest of drawers with an oval vanity mirror.

Different sized towels and cloths were folded neatly on the dresser, along with an assortment of jars containing what appeared to be soaps, dusting powder and lotions.

The level of care that went into the preparations that Erik had made for her – not even knowing what might have happened between them was stunning. She was not surprised at this, because the first time he brought her to his home, his thoughtfulness for her comfort was present, even when his anger took him over. He would attack and retreat – immediately aware and ashamed.

Another small pile of fabric situated next to the towels catches her eye. She riffles through the items – a silken chemise with a matching pair of drawers trimmed in Valenciennes lace, as well as a delicate nightgown with wide lace straps with buttons down the front. Another small laugh. More front closures, like the wedding dress. Thoughtful, though – she suspected most women did not have help putting on the multiple layers of clothing that were expected of them to wear.

A small note lays on top of the lingerie.

 _If these are not suitable, there are additional garments in the top drawer. E_

She opens the drawer which was filled with chemises, drawers and other intimates. She wonders how he went about purchasing all these items for her. She will wear his choices – which are lovely, but modest, respecting their situation right now, she presumes. Some of the other garments in the drawer are more daring, if only by their color, or so it seemed to her untrained eye.

So many incongruities - he never approached her in an untoward fashion. Even with all the business of the wedding dress and ceremony he had conceived, she never feared he would rape her. He could barely manage to touch her when she kissed him. Even now, his hands seemed to be controlled by some deeper emotion that even he, with his ability to be totally still, could not contain. A desire to hold and caress that a hidden part of his mind forbade him to realize.

"Pappa, I think you would be pleased with my angel of music." She opens some of the jars and begins her toilette.

* * *

Nadir sits on one of the arm chairs sipping his tea. "Is she all right?" He has placed the tray with the tea pot, two cups and a plate of macarons on the coffee table. He looks up at Erik, noting his damp face and reddened eyes. "Are you all right?"

Erik nods as he walks into the kitchen, returning with an umbrella. "I think we all need some time to come to terms with what has happened and simply rest – particularly Christine. Despite her good humor, she has had to deal with many challenging events today in addition to her physical injuries." He holds up the umbrella. "I believe this will do as a cane for the moment, no?"

"Adele may have another cane." He shrugs. "And you? Are you all right – you seem to be a mass of nerves."

"What do you mean by _all right_?" His laugh is sardonic, "My dreams have come true and it is surprisingly unsettling. I have lived a life of negative expectation and was prepared to find all my efforts with this…" He opens his arms to the room… "to have been in vain. I am somewhat at a loss as to how to deal with this reality."

"Are you certain that this is the best situation for her? She is a young girl…"

"And I am a lecherous old man?"

"No, my friend, but the passion between the two of you is obvious. Life has a way of taking us over despite our best intentions." Motioning with his hand, he indicates that Erik sit down and drink his tea. "A proper courtship might be a better approach. Allow her to live at Adele's…"

"Whatever insane thoughts I had about bringing her here last night, I want a proper life for us – as proper as could be while we still live beneath the opera house. I would not – could not take her until she was my true wife."

"You may have to consider what the young lady desires, my friend."

"What do you mean?" His sallow complexion takes on a touch of pink.

"I said the passion between the two of you," Nadir chides him. "You are completely unaware of your effect on women, aren't you? The little sultana was obsessed with you."

Erik just shakes his head. "That is ridiculous."

"Hmmph," Nadir grunts. "In any case, you must tell her about the Bible and your family," Nadir tells him.

"Ah, yes, the Bible." To be married, paperwork must be provided. His eyes seek out the Bible that resides in the bookcase with other books and papers – indiscernible from many of the leather bound books in his library.

"Are you planning my life for me again?" Christine stands in the doorway of her bedroom, flushed and brightened by freshening herself – comfortable in her new nightgown and wrapper.

Erik jumps up and helps her to the settee. "Nadir was just cautioning me to be a gentleman. He is concerned about…"

"I merely want you to be aware of…" Nadir mutters.

"Thank you both for your sincere concern," she laughs, preparing a cup of tea for herself. "Erik well knows that my life has never been proper." Her eyes light up at the sweets, she picks up a macaron and takes a bite. "Madame can attest to the gossip that came about once I initiated my lessons with him. Then there were the rumors about my being Raoul's kept woman." She takes a sip of her drink. "My father and I traveled Europe, so I am a bit of a gypsy, too." She turns to look directly into Erik's eyes. "Although not in the same sense that you lived with them. We are akin to one another, despite my _innocence_."

"Do you still wish to marry me?" Erik asks hesitantly.

"With all my heart." She touches his hand. "And we will take each day as it comes for now." She winks at Nadir.

"Then I shall take my leave, my work is done here." Rising from his chair, Nadir bows to Christine. "Adele is waiting for me. We shall see you tomorrow at noon – as directed."

"Wait just a moment." Christine hands him a note she had tucked in her sleeve. "If you would, please give this to Madame."

"Of course."

Erik follows him through the kitchen and sets the alarms.

"Now what am I supposed to know about your family and a Bible?" Christine asks as he re-enters the sitting room.

He stops at the bookcase, removes the Bible and carries it with him to the sofa, handing it to Christine as he takes a seat next to her.

The Bible surprisingly brings a rare smile to his face. "Marie Perreault, my mother's friend and…mine, told me that I might need the Bible one day. It was Marie who taught me to respect women by an act of kindness. She would be most upset at the way I handled you last night. I am sorry."

Christine shakes her head and rubs her hand across the cover of the holy book. "Go on."

"My mother had left me alone for a day and her friend, my nurse, Marie was looking after me and my dog, Sasha. Sasha had an accident on the rug and Marie had cleaned it up without complaint. More importantly, she did not tell my mother, thus saving both of us from her punishment.

He shifts in his seat.

"Many years after I had left, I felt a need to return to Rouen – a compelling need to see my old home again. Perhaps to confront my mother. I am not sure."

* * *

Marie had wanted desperately to touch Erik, to comfort the little boy that she had known and cared for so many years before, but the man in front of her had hardened. This Erik would never let her in again. She often wondered how he had fared after running away.

She recalled her anger with Madeleine at how she had treated the boy and finally told her what a spoiled brat she was and had always been. It had been too late. By the time Madeleine had finally awakened to her abuse, the boy had sickened of his life with the mother who refused to touch him and left.

It was a shock when he turned up three days after Madeleine's death. She had posted a notice about her illness, but really did not expect he would see it. In fact, he had not. God works in mysterious ways, Marie thought: Erik had known somehow.

She had directed him to Madeleine's bedroom. Marie was glad that he would be able to say good-by, if only in spirit, but when he returned from the room where Madeleine's body lay in repose, his manner had not changed. There had been no tears or softening. Perhaps there was a shift, something had changed in his eyes, but it was so subtle, Marie thought it was simply her imagination.

Marie could not imagine how a young boy could have survived, but Erik was always special, always ahead of the other children. That was the gift from God to offset the wreckage of his poor, dear face.

She drew his attention the Bible that sat on the coffee table in front of her. Despite its age, the book was in pristine condition – the rubbed black leather looked and felt like velvet, the gold embossed cross picked up the sunlight that drifted into the room through a crack in the heavy velvet curtains.

"Please, Erik, take the Bible with you. It has been in your family for so many years. Madeleine expressly asked that I give it to you, were you to return."

"I have no use for the book and less use for the sentiments of my late mother and her 'family.'" The glow from the cross, sent a chill through him. He was always cold, but this was a different sort of chill. Well, if there was a God, this was one hell of a message _he_ was sending. I'm not afraid of you, Almighty One. You have been incredibly clear as to your feelings about me.

Marie's soft gray eyes pleaded with him. "There are entries in the book that you might find of interest."

Erik raised an eyebrow and his amber eyes studied her. "Indeed. What sort of entries?"

Marie had hoped he would just take the Bible and leave. She did not want to go into what he might find in the Bible. She wasn't prepared or really able to explain what he might find there. Madeleine asked her to swear that she wouldn't reveal anything to Erik that he could not or would not discern on his own.

"How can I reveal what I do not know?" she asked.

"You do know, Marie. Don't pretend that you do not. Our family histories are long and tightly bound."

He was prescient. In addition to everything else, he could read minds. She remembered how Madeleine had given her a crooked smile that held no mirth in it. _"Just be sure that, if he is still alive and comes to claim his inheritance, he receives his entire inheritance. I owe him that much."_

Marie sighed. It was a sigh that held so many years of secrets and it was actually a relief to let it flow from the deepest part of her soul.

"There are entries related to your family line," she began slowly. "Information that might, after all these years, help explain…" She didn't know how to continue. Explain what? How do you explain how a child was born bearing the marks of the secrets of his family.

"What, woman?" Erik demanded. "Explain what, exactly?'

"Why you look as you do."

Erik let out a sour laugh. "You mean to say that some other family member bears a face like mine? Do tell."

Marie shook her head. "No. Everyone was beautiful. Everyone was bright and beautiful. So beautiful they would only mate one another."

Erik sat down on the overstuffed sofa across from Marie. "So you are saying that my mother's family participated in the custom of close marriage?"

Marie blushed and cleared her throat, "Yes – in a manner of speaking."

"They did or they did not." He rose abruptly and turned from her. "I thought this practice was relegated to the peasants and rural folk. Are not special dispensations required from your Holy Church?"

"Yes, yes. The family stopped it generations ago. The bishops began to refuse to grant the dispensations."

"So what is your point in raising this issue? It stopped. What does that have to do with me now?"

Another deep sigh, Marie said a silent prayer and asked Erik to sit again.

"I'll stand, thank you."

"Please, you are so tall, my dear boy, it hurts my neck to have to look up at you."

Erik sat back down on the sofa, but refused to relax.

Marie adjust her skirt and took a sip of her now cold tea.

"Madame, please."

"When Madeleine became ill, she found comfort in reading the Bible again. She had returned to the church after you left. She sought answers in prayer, but she couldn't forgive herself for how she treated you."

"She was conspiring with that doctor to put me in an asylum."

His amber eyes were aflame and Marie felt as though he could burn through her and everything in this room with them. His rage was palpable.

She threw up her hands in protest. "No," she cried.

"Yes." His voice was calm and cold belying the rage emanating from his body.

Marie shook her head and repeated, softly, gently, "No."

"I heard her… them talking, conspiring…"

"How?"

Erik uttered a strangled, bitter grunt, "I suppose your God felt that I had to be compensated for this face with some gifts –my music and preternatural senses of sight, touch and…hearing. All the better to know of the whispers about me, I suppose."

"Oh, Erik."

"Stop. Just stop. She was going to lock me away."

Marie shook her head again. "No, she wasn't. We had argued and I told her she had to be a better, uh, mother. That she had to stop being selfish." Marie let out her own bitter grunt. "She was shocked. No one had ever spoken to her thus." She took another breath and shook her head to release the memory. "She was appalled at Etienne's – Dr. Beyer's suggestion.

" _I told him that I loved Erik, he was my son and I would never do that my child. I broke it off with him."_

Marie looked up at him appealing for his understanding. "She told me the next day. She said that she had resolved to do better by you, but you had gone in the night."

Erik could only stare at the fragile old woman who showed him some of the only kindness he knew as a child. She would not lie to him, but he had no words of solace for her. Too little, too late. His life was what it was. It didn't matter what might have been. Not now.

Marie tried again, somehow she had to make him understand, for his own sake – Madeleine be damned. What little salvation she might offer this wounded man, she was determined he would have it. She plowed forward with her insistence about his heritage. "She discovered a letter in the Bible from her father. He had written it shortly before he died. Madeleine had only just found it."

Erik shifted uncomfortably. His impatience with this discussion had reached a level where he was not sure if he could remain in this house much longer, much less be cordial to this old woman whom he sincerely cared about.

" _Charles and I were brother and sister. Or rather, half-brother and half-sister. Pere fathered both of us."_

"What are you saying?" His mind was in turmoil. He had accused his mother of every possible sin imaginable after he had left, deepening the ever present darkness that was his soul, but this was something even beyond his imaginings.

" _He had had a secret affair with the wife of one of his Parisian associates. She had believed herself to be barren; when she became with child she realized that it had to be Pere's. She bore him a son."_

"I did not know what to say to her – she adored her father."

"Go on."

"Your father, Charles, was raised as the son of Mme. Claudine and M. Alexandre Saint-Rien.

"When he moved to Rouen, Madeleine's father took him under his wing. He never considered that Charles and Madeleine would fall in love and wish to marry. Charles was fifteen years older than Madeleine. He did not know what to do. The strain caused him to have a stroke. He lost his ability to speak, was barely able to communicate at all. He confessed his sin to Fr. Mansart and asked him to put his confession in a letter to Madeleine to be given her when he died. Fr. Mansart was torn – Pere's revelations were under the seal of Confession and you were gone. That letter and the letter certifying your birth and baptism can be found in the pages of the Bible: Exodus 20.

"After reading the letter, Madeleine consulted another physician – Etienne had long moved on to another town. This new young doctor loved science and medicine and was always talking about new discoveries. He had come upon the works of Charles Darwin and Gregor Mendel who were trying to understand the nature of how plants and people developed and issues of heredity. How traits were passed along from one entity to another. Genetics, they call it.

" _Could there be accidents or bad results?"_

" _Of course,_ " Dr. Chevret responded. " _No one knows yet what possibilities there may be, but that is the wonder of it."_

Erik tried to absorb what he was hearing. Both his talents and gifts were products of the same inbreeding that created his monstrous face.

He stood abruptly and bowed slightly to Marie who could not take her eyes off of him. They were filled with tears that she fought, dabbing her eyes with a lacy handkerchief.

"Do not pity me."

"I never have, Erik," she sighed. "I pity your mother who did not appreciate you and your father who never knew you."

"I believe I will take my leave now. I will be in touch about the disposition of the house." He turned to go.

"Erik. Stop, please. Take the Bible. It may be useful to you. There is the lineage and the letters. Sometimes personal history is needed in this world."

He straightened himself and nodded. He picked up the heavy book, tipped his hat and left the house that was never really his home.

Erik took a deep breath of the country air and stood on the step to look over the land that was now his. So very different from Paris. Well, he supposed he need not worry about purchasing furnishings for his new home beneath the Opera House now.

He had fled this house with nothing. Now as he returned, he was a wealthy man on his own, thanks to the Shah. His wealth had doubled with his return to Rouen. He folded the papers Marie had given him and pushed them into one the pockets in his cloak.

Inbreeding – that thought had never occurred to him – why would it? Cousins married all the time, so long as there was some distance between them. This was some sort of anomaly – Marie had said that his family no longer engaged in the practice of close marriage. He would have to look further into this science of genetics.

He allowed himself to bring forth the recollection of Marie's words, substantiated by the letter she advised was secured in this book. The book of God's word, or so he was told. He thumbed the book and it opened to Exodus 20, where both letters rested

One letter was his baptismal certificate – it gave his name, Erik Charles Henri Saint-Rien, date of birth, 8 May 1831, at 02:00 hours at St.-Martin-de-Boscherville. It listed his parents as: Madeleine Louise Camille DuChamps and his father as Charles Alexandre Henri Saint-Rien. It was signed by Fr. Erik Mansart and witnessed by Marie Perrault and Simonette Mallieux and certified by the Boscherville mairie.

The document further stated that he was a child of God and had been forgiven of his Original Sin – the sin of Adam and Eve for disobeying God's law when Eve purportedly ate of the fruit of the Knowledge of Good and Evil. Thrown from the Garden for having sex most likely. He let out a small sardonic laugh. "Fig leaves." He glanced down at his finely tailored clothing, the black woolen suit and the cape with just few crystals sewn into the satin of the collar. "A long way from fig leaves indeed."

The other letter spoke of the greater sin – there was no doubt of that – incest was not something taken lightly, even by the poorer folks who insisted that inter-marrying encouraged the development of their talents and finer gifts. A cousin was one thing – a sibling quite another.

He read the passage that was Exodus 20:

" _You shall not bow yourself down to them, nor serve them. For I the LORD your God am a jealous God, visiting the iniquity of the fathers upon the sons to the third and fourth generation of those that hate me, and showing mercy to thousands of those that love Me and keep My commandments."_

It appeared that the Baptismal forgiveness did not excuse the sexual behavior of his ancestors. Another of God's jokes. More penance. More purgatory.

He wondered idly why God felt that he was the one who had to suffer for the sin of his parents. They had not actually known that they had sinned and he supposed Madeleine had suffered when his father was killed. Had his father suffered in death? Had his grandfather?

He pulled out the silver frame that held the photographs of his mother and father from the pocket of his coat. Another memento that Marie insisted he take. At least she had not insisted he attend the funeral.

He supposed that he might have looked like his father. Dark hair and eyes perhaps a bit darker than his – he could not tell from the photograph. Madeleine had been incredibly lovely, hair the color of autumn leaves and pale green eyes – he remembered staring at her, wishing he could touch her, but that had been forbidden.

" _Do not touch me. Do not ever touch me."_

The woman lying dead in her bedroom now bore no resemblance to the photograph. Just another dried up crone that he would have passed on the street without a second glance.

"Well, cannot linger here all day," he said to no one, himself, Saint Nothing, and mounted his white mare for the return to Paris.

* * *

"Nadir was fascinated by the story of inbreeding and the marriage of his parents. He said this was common practice in most parts of the world – certainly among the royalty in Persia. He believed it was a fluke of some sort, a rather nasty fluke. What he knew of genetics suggested that inbreeding produced physical distortions, but the mental distortions were equally prevalent."

"So he is aware of all of this?" Christine asks.

"Yes. Much as I tried to avoid it and am wont to admit it – the Persian is my family and I am his. We have shared much."

"And Marie loved you. And you had Sasha," Christine reminded him.

"Yes?"

"So you have known love. You do know how to love."

"Not like this. Not like you." He takes her left hand in his and kisses it.

"Nor I." She brings his hand to her lap and rests her head on his shoulder. "Nor I."

* * *

 **A/N – I am an astrologer and cannot resist introducing some of that craft into this story. I will be doing a comparison between Erik's and Christine's charts. I calculated the date of Erik's birth based on the date of Charles' accident and death in the Kay book. He died on May 3, 1861, according to Madeleine's recollections, Erik was born late in the night of the burial. I have to admit I fudged the date a bit – I was going to use 3 days from death to burial, but intuition had me wanting the position of Erik's Moon to be at a later degree than it would have been if born on May 7. When I address my "reading" in a future chapter, I will give the date I used for Christine and my rationale.**


	10. Agreements

AGREEMENTS

Adele starts when the door opened, dropping her rosary while turning to see who entered without knocking.

Nadir bursts in, grabbing her by the waist and swinging her around before kissing her fully on her open mouth – stopping her complaint about knocking or whatever it was she was going to scold him about.

She pushes him away and covers the aforementioned mouth with her hand. "What are you doing?"

"Love is in the air and I want a taste of it for myself," he chuckles, pulling her toward him again and taking a moment to nuzzle her neck with a soft kiss before pressing his lips against hers. The first pressure is rough and uncomfortable, lips pressed hard against their teeth. Both relax and the kiss softens, becoming a mutual smile as they pull away from the embrace.

Adele fusses with her braids and smooths her dress with her hands. Her pale skin is flushed and she feels shy and a bit embarrassed by the exchange. "That was…nice. Surprising, but nice."

"Yes, it was," he responds. "Been wanting to do that for some time, but it never seemed to be the right time or place or something of the sort."

"Did you plan anything else – in the manner of our good friend?" She asks.

"No, my life has not been such as to go to the extremes Erik does when he sets out to accomplish something. Praise Allah."

"They are well? I hoped Christine would return with you."

"The little mam'selle appears to have taken charge of the situation. Though she said nothing directly, it was implied that I mind my own business – so I left."

"Erik?"

"He is besotted and befuddled," Nadir advises. "And I am happy for him." He pats his pocket, then pulls out the note from Christine. "She asked me to give you this." He hands the note to Adele.

She opens the missive. "Interesting." She sits downs down on the chaise, noticing her rosary on the floor. She picks it up and puts it in her pocket before reading:

 _Dearest Madame,_

 _As you now know, I have decided to stay with Erik. I am perhaps as surprised as anyone at this development, but the events of this past day have shown me where my heart lies._

 _I will, of course, return to gather my belongings, such as they are, but hoped you could bring my personal feminine items, my father's violin, and my other pair of shoes when you visit us tomorrow. And my new cloak._

 _Could you also bring my case with the paperwork related to my birth, Pappa's death and your guardianship and proof of where you reside?_

"It sounds as though she has investigated the necessary papers for her to marry," Nadir interrupts.

Adele nods. She continues reading:

 _It would be best for all concerned if Erik and I were married as soon as possible. This will alleviate the anxieties of anyone who may feel I am being corrupted by this living arrangement, including Erik._

 _One thing more – do you have another walking stick that I might have use of?_

 _Thank you so much,_

 _Christine Daee_

"I must also speak to Moncharmin and Richard about her contract. I do not feel that I should sign anything for her until it is discussed with Erik. He will be her husband and I will no longer have guardianship." She tucks the letter in her pocket.

"That should be a fascinating conversation," Nadir laughs. "Do you suppose I could be in attendance when you speak to them?"

"Why not?" she responds. "You may be needed to pick them up off the floor when I tell them she is likely getting married."

"Perhaps it might be best to just tell them that she wishes to speak with them herself," Nadir suggests.

"I suppose so," Adele laughs. "I would not wish to deprive her of the look on their faces when they discover she is marrying the Opera Ghost."

He joins in the laughter, then stops.

"What?"

"You truly are beautiful when you laugh. Are you aware of that?"

Adele swallows hard, thoughts swirl in her head, she is not certain how she should respond. Blunt and direct has always served her. "I have been called handsome – which is what a woman is called when she lacks beauty."

He walks toward her and smooths her hair with the back of his hand, his thumb brushing against her cheekbone. "So defined, yet delicate – I wish I could have seen you dance."

"I was quite wonderful, I must admit." She pulls away again. "I think we should be going – Meg is likely wondering what has become of me."

Nadir laughs. "May I escort you home?"

"Yes, I would like that."

* * *

Christine's breathing has become regular and Erik smiles at the slight humming sound coming through her slightly parted lips. His angel of music sings in her sleep – he wonders what song she has chosen for her dreams.

His back has begun to ache from sitting so still. His eyes take in the room and his sense of orderliness is immediately offended – empty cups and dishes on the table – he can only imagine what the kitchen looks like. His clothing hanging over furniture and he recalls that Christine's garments were tossed over a chair.

This will not do. He extricates himself as gently as possible from the settee and lifts Christine to carry her into her bedroom. She grumbles a bit, but continues to sleep. He sighs in relief.

Unable to turn down the bed, he lays her on top of the covers, plumps a pillow under her head and covers her with the afghan folded at the foot of the bed. He hangs up her dress and folds her petticoats placing them, the tournure and bonnet in the armoire.

Back in the sitting room, he gets down to business picking up the tea things, taking them to the kitchen to wash. As he goes about the house he removes his cravat, waistcoat and cummerbund, and with his frock coat stashes them in his own armoire. He removes his shoes and stockings intent on putting on his house slippers when a cry stops him.

"Erik? Erik? Christine calls out. "Help me."

He rushes to her room.

Christine thrashes around on the bed. Her head pushes into the pillow, body twisting and turning, legs tangle in the afghan, arms flail at the air. She gasps for air. "No, please. Please."

Erik sits on the edge of the bed cradling her to him, holding her head to his chest, absorbing her fear "It is all right. I am here. Erik is here." He sings one of the Swedish lullabies she taught him. (Krake satt I lunden)

 _Sleep, my little one, sleep_

 _Wake up in the King's court_

 _The stars in the blue sky_

 _are little lambs of silver_

 _The moon is their shepherd,_

 _Now, the child will sleep well_

 _Sleep, my little one, sleep_

 _Wake up in the King's court_

Her eyes fly open. "No. Please let me go." She beats him with her fists. He pulls her closer until she becomes aware of him and that there is no danger. Wrapping her arms tightly around his neck, she sobs, "H-he was dragging me. I-I thought I was going to die."

"You are safe now," Erik croons, repeating the words over and over, keeping her tucked safely against him.

Christine relaxes into his embrace, "I was so frightened." Just the pressure of his body against hers calms her.

"Yes, but you were also very brave," Erik soothes. "Here, let's get you settled more comfortably,"

He helps her to sit up. In order to free her from the afghan, he helps her shuck her wrapper and tosses them both onto the bench. Kneeling on the floor, he checks the bandage on her ankle. "How does it feel?

"A little sore," she responds. She shifts her weight to tug at her nightgown that has ruched up around her thighs, one of the straps falling off her shoulder.

His breath catches in his throat. The gown is sheerer than he realized, the thin fabric outlines her breasts. There is a disconcerting stirring in his groin; he wills himself to maintain control. So many years of enforced abstinence and control has made him an expert.

Placing an arm around her waist, he help her stand, allowing him to turn down the bed, then sets her down gently, lifting her legs onto the bed and fluffs the pillow under her head. When he reaches for the covers, she takes his arm, stopping him.

"Leave them off."

"But you will be cold, you must be covered."

"Take off your mask, I want to see your face."

He shakes his head.

"Yes."

He takes a deep breath and removes the mask, placing it on the nightstand.

"Now lie here next to me."

"You have been injured. This is not the right time. The bruising is starting to show."

"Yes," she insists. "I want to touch you. I want you to touch me."

He lies on his left side next to her careful not to disturb her injured shoulder. Lifting himself up on one elbow, he smooths strands of unwieldy hair away from her face. He breathes in the scent of jasmine. "You liked the perfume?"

"Yes. Everything you chose was perfect. Especially this." She unbuttons the top of her nightgown and places his hand on her breast.

His heart has moved to his throat – he has no words to respond. His imaginings were weak compared to this reality. The breast cupped in his hand is so perfect, firm and supple – her skin flawless. He grazes the areola with his thumb and is amazed as the soft pink circle puckers.

"Kiss them," she whispers.

He bends over to suckle the sweet peak. His tongue circles the nipple, biting gently before letting go.

"I always wondered how that would feel," Christine sighs, touching his damaged face, sliding her fingers along his swollen lips. "Now kiss my mouth."

He exhales, not realizing that he had been holding his breath. "Words fail me."

"Then do not talk," she laughs. "Kiss me."

He leans into her and presses his lips against hers, then breaks away. "This is too much."

She draws him back, stroking his deformity, pressing her mouth against his, forcing his lips apart with her tongue. Unable to resist, he responds with his own tongue searching her mouth.

Any willpower he feels has been salvaging is overcome, his desire has won. All he wants now is to know every part of her. His hand roams down the length of her body, sensitive fingers taking in her flat stomach and the dip where her hips meet her thighs, then down her legs. Curious fingers move upward to the inverted triangle that is her private place. They venture into the brown curls that shelter her slit and touch the warm flesh beneath.

Christine responds with a sharp intake of breath. "Oh."

Her own hand explores his sinewy chest and abdomen. The skin rough in places and ridged with what she suspects are old scars. He has not removed his shirt, so only her touch can inform her suspicions. His engorged member strains the fabric of his trousers. She unbuttons his trousers and drawers then slips her hand into the undergarment to fondle his hardness, her thumb circling the ridge of the head. She adjusts her body to better stroke him, her fingers thread through the wiry hair surrounding his sack completing the journey by applying gentle pressure to the base of his privates

"Christine," he breathes. Abruptly, he pulls away. "I-I don't know how to do this."

"We are teaching each other." Rolling on her back, she bends her left knee and spreads her legs. Taking his hand, she returns it to her heat, guiding his fingers with her own. He feels a small bud of flesh and rubs it gently with his thumb.

"Yes," she sighs. He increases the intensity of his manipulation, inserting a finger inside of her, feeling her wetness and the tightness of her passage. He inserts another finger increasing the friction, adapting his movements to her rhythm until she thrusts her hips forward and locks her thighs on his hand. Her body stiffens, then relaxes.

Face, neck and chest are flushed, eyes closed. A look of peace and satisfaction on her smiling face. "Now you – us," she says, opening her eyes, reaching for him.

"No." He stands and removes the constructive clothing, then, moves to the foot of the bed. Never losing eye contact, he insinuates himself between her thighs.

She bends her knees and opens her womanhood to him.

With his hands under her buttocks, he lifts her, wanting to experience each layer that protects her secret place. "So beautiful. Like the petals of a flower." Her gift to him. He nuzzles the soft plump outer lips, her bush tickling his nose. His exploration finds the softer, finer inner layer where he licks her moisture. Reaching the heart of her sex, he probes her entry with his tongue, flicking and darting, stimulating the bud - drinking in her musk. Soft moans assure him that his pleasure is hers as well.

"I-want-you-inside-of-me."

He positions himself over her, draping her legs over his forearms, drawing her closer to him.

Christine ushers the tip of his length into her and he pushes gently.

She moans, a small frown wrinkles her forehead.

"Are you all right?"

"Yes," she breathes. "A little more."

He pulls back, then pushes in further. Another soft moan. "Let me know, I do not wish to hurt you."

"It is fine." She watches him intently. The intensity of his amber eyes sears through her, re-affirming her own desire.

He massages her with his fingers. "Better?"

"Yes."

Withdrawing, then pressing in further, he is almost completely enveloped by her. He looks to her for assurance.

She nods, biting her lower lip.

With another rhythmic thrust – he fills her.

"Ah."

Slow gentle strokes, watching her face, he feels ready to burst. Her eyes are locked with his as they attune to one another. He is conscious of her eyes changing when he has particularly pleased her.

"There. " Her head falls back as she grinds herself into him.

The tempo crescendos. Bodies pulse in and out – faster and deeper. He slips one arm under her hips, drawing her even closer as they surrender to one another.

Spent. With a deep groan, he collapses, burying his face into her neck.

A serene smile gracing her face, Christine brushes her hand against his sparse hair, twirling a few strands between her fingers.

Erik lifts himself off her body and smiles at her. "You are fascinated with my poor head." He bends down to kiss her, then rolls over on his back next to her.

She snuggles close to him. Her fingertips flit the length of his body, stopping at his private parts, where they dance lightly over, around and on his manhood.

"Christine, it is too soon – I cannot…"

"Is that so," she giggles as they both observe his obvious arousal.

"Minx."

"Encore, Maestro?"


	11. Afterthoughts

AFTERTHOUGHTS

Adele and Nadir choose the option of a leisurely walk back to her flat rather than hiring a brougham. Spring is definitely in the air, the sidewalks are filled with people running errands or just enjoying the fresh air after spending the early day inside.

For Adele, the past twenty-four hours were so full of angst and fear that even her praying two rosaries had no power to calm her. Add to that, Nadir's unexpected kiss. They are quite good friends, much of that thanks to Erik's antics, and enjoy a comfortable companionship.

Past the age where she dreams of romance, comfort is more to her liking than the emotion that always accompanies a love affair. And yet, the kiss, awkward and surprisingly sweet, opens a door she thought locked forever.

Dismissing the thought, not wishing to venture into that discussion, she comments, "I am concerned about what and how much to tell Meg about today's events."

"She will wonder why Christine is not returning home?" he asks. "They are close, are they not?"

"Like sisters – although Christine has always been the more mature of the two. Understandable because of the vagabond life she led, as well as being a bit older."

* * *

" _What was it like, sleeping outdoors? Did you sleep in caves or under trees? What about wild animals, were you afraid of being eaten by a bear?_

" _Sometimes it was very cold, we carried blankets, but could only carry so much in our packs. Pappa had his gun, so we were not too afraid of the animals?_

" _What did you eat? What about water? What about private needs?"_ The last question whispered, something not discussed in company.

" _Most of the time we had shelter, Meg,"_ Christine advised _, "otherwise, we used what was available. We always had bread and some cheese – dried meat, if we were especially fortunate. Our wooden canteens were kept filled, to the extent it was possible."_

" _It must have been such fun."_

" _Oftentimes it was, particularly when Pappa found work and could play his violin."_

" _I loved his playing. I miss him."_

" _Me, too, little sister, me, too."_

* * *

"My suggestion, if you care to have it, is to have Christine explain things to her," he opines. "For now, just say that Christine hurt her ankle in a fall and it was decided that staying with Erik was best. He does have all that medical knowledge."

"True enough. She does loves her Uncle Erik." Her hand finds its way under his arm. "What a family we have become."

"Adele, I want to apologize if I was too bold with my kiss."

"I enjoyed it."

This man from Persia was so different from the other men in her life – not only his appearance, dark skin – not the pale complexions of Louis and Gustave – an air of mystery and good looks, to be sure, but his entire manner. A sense of peace surrounded him that encompassed everyone in his path. Erik was always calmer – saner when Nadir was present. Grace – yes, grace was the word she would use to describe him.

"Would you care to allow our friendship to develop further, in a more, shall we say, intimate way?" he asks with a delicacy that sends a thrill up her spine. Christine's fascination with Erik's voice was making much more sense to her now.

"Yes." Overcome with unaccustomed shyness, a blush colors her pale skin. "I do have a request, however."

"And that would be?" Leading her to a small café, he pulls out one of the scrolled ironwork chairs at an outdoor table, offering her a seat. "Let us sit, I think this conversation demands a cup of coffee… or tea, if you prefer."

A thin young man, with scruffy brown hair takes their order for two café au laits and croissants, then leaves.

"So, only one request?"

Her laughter is light and easy. "Well, perhaps one major request." Dark eyes wander from his face to the street, to the interior of the café and back. "I would like to be courted."

Crinkles frame Nadir's own dark eyes when he smiles his response. Wide, almost pudgy hands, reach for hers, taking them from her lap, bringing them to the table top. "That would be my honor."

The need to explain her request overrides her normal reticence at revealing herself. "When I met Louis, I was dancing ballet, he was a cellist in the orchestra. As with many such romances, we fell into bed before considering the consequences. I became pregnant and we married. I lost that child and the next and the next. Both our hearts were broken and our relationship soured. We tried, yet again though, and Meg was born. We were both older and the pregnancy was a surprise, but it held us together."

"No courtship?"

"Definitely no courtship." She pulls her hand away when the waiter brings their order. He lays napkins in front of them, a setting of silverware, two cups and a plate holding their croissants, and a small pot of strawberry jam. "Anything else?"

"This is fine," Nadir responds. "Merci."

The food is nibbled at, each of them taking their time with each bite and sip of coffee.

"When Louis died, I taught ballet. I have been fortunate in that respect, to have a trade."

"Work is not easy to find for women."

"Especially dancers of a certain age," she snorts. "Without family and a small child, there was no choice. Men are not interested in established families."

"No, I suppose not," he concurs. "I had never considered that."

"Christine's father, Gustave, was Louis' friend. When he moved to Paris he needed a place to stay, so I invited him in."

* * *

" _Madame Giry, I realize this is a lot to ask, but I have been offered a regular situation at a small café here. My funds, however, do not extend to having enough to rent a flat for Christine and myself right now."_

" _Of course, M. Daae, Louis would have it no other way. You are welcome here for as long as you need."_

" _I am most grateful."_

* * *

It was supposed to be for only a short time, but the situation worked for all concerned. A little family was formed. He missed his beloved Katrine and I missed my Louis. The girls adored one another and there was no reason for them to move out.

"Then?"

"We were both lonely and became lovers. Then he got sick and I cared for him. Then he died." The tears grew slowly, resting on her lower lids before flowing down her cheeks.

Nadir uses his napkin to dab the corners of her eyes. "This was, what six months ago?"

"Yes." Taking a deep breath, she continues. "The children probably suspected that we were more than friends, but it was never discussed," she advises. "Christine's grief was so profound, I was unable to cry for myself."

"So Erik is a blessing?"

A laugh bursts from her lips. "Yes, I suppose so. Difficult to think of him in that way," she says. "I actually thought she was going to marry Raoul. She loved her lessons with Erik, but I felt she was frightened of him, especially after the foolish stunt of kidnapping her."

"I was away and not monitoring him," Nadir explains. "I can tell you stories…"

A sardonic look signals that she believes those words to be true. "I tried to contact him with a note in Box 5, but he disappeared entirely. The traps were armed and the front gate had a new lock, so I could not get into the house. Then, two weeks later, she was back home."

"Did she explain?"

* * *

" _What happened? Where were you?_

" _He is my Angel of Music, Madame. The one my father told me would come when he died."_

" _He is a man, Christine. He is no angel, believe me."_

" _Yes, I know he is a man, but he came to me in my dressing room and taught me to sing. He sings like an angel."_

" _He came into your dressing room?_

" _Not into. I could hear him, but not see him."_

" _Where have you been these past weeks?"_

" _His house. He wants to teach me there now."_

" _Did he hurt you?_

" _No."_

" _Did he..."_

" _NO."_

* * *

"I had no idea he was even aware of her, much less teaching her. Not a word from either of them." she grunts. "Her voice, of course, had developed to Prima Donna quality. My suspicions were aroused, but…"

"Then?"

"Then he taught her at the house, under my supervision." She shrugs. "The business with Raoul drove him mad."

"So part of this courtship means we have three children to look out for, is that so?" His tone ironic.

Adele reaches for his hand this time. "I want to be courted, Nadir. I want to feel what I missed as a young girl, petted and admired. Meg is still mine to take care of, but now that Christine and Erik are together, it is time for me to live again."

"If being romanced is what you wish, my lady, then you shall be romanced." Raising her hand to his lips, he gently nibbles her knuckles.

* * *

The ceiling holds a particular fascination for him – the shadows created by the dim lighting lull him into a half slumber – just enough to soften the sharp angles of wakefulness. Recalling what has just happened to him – between them – is preferable to sleep. The fear of a nightmare is always present when he lies down, a middle state is a kind of nepenthe. In this particular instance, he is also concerned about Christine's repose, hoping that her nightmare will not make another visit. Awake he will remain.

So many years of denial and rejection made moot in a day – an incredibly hectic and agonizing day, to be sure, but one that will forever be engraved in his mind and on his heart.

"I am loved."

The taste of her lingers on his lips, the scent of her musk mingles with his own – a vague hint of jasmine providing a sweet undertone. The words to his duet take on new meaning. Imaginings pale in comparison to what they experienced. The musical passion was not false, it was simply incomplete.

Their combined desire eludes description at the moment, but the music would come – he already feels melodies floating through his mind. Don Juan Triumphant, his masterwork – twenty years of composing – now trite and meaningless. Thanks to his muse, lying next to him.

Christine's soft curls mingle with his meager chest hairs. His shirt was removed at some point, and the beloved girl began toying with the motley strands, just as she had with the stringy mess that adorns his wrecked scalp. Her determination that he have a full head of hair almost has him believing it could be so.

The miracle of their union...unions – did he feel his face flush – proves her sorcery – creating a man he never imagined he could be.

Nevertheless, even in the euphoria over his newfound relationship, Erik cannot completely leave his past behind. Sleep will always be his enemy in that regard, whatever blissful nights he might share with Christine.

* * *

" _You do like it, do you not?" Do not lie to me, your body deceives you."_ The little sultana taunted him.

Games of Love, she called them. Upon their first meeting, she insisted Erik be part of the audience as the slaves were instructed to perform sexual acts with one another. The entire production was based on her whims – men with men, women with women, group copulation – the more vulgar and degrading to the participants the better.

As the energy accelerated, her excitement grew. Despite his ability to control his body, Erik was human and still very young – his arousals, when they happened, amused her. Laughter, however, was her downfall in these pornographic episodes. At the very sound of her high pitched giggle, a family trait shared with the shah, his erection disappeared.

" _Why do you do that?"_ Pointing a polished nail at his deflated member.

" _Magic. I am magical."_ His response calm and assured. One did not insult this woman and live to regret it. _"I can make it large or make it small."_

" _Tsh,"_ she muttered. _"No man can do that at his will. I know men."_

" _Only this man."_

The obnoxious giggle filled the air again ensuring his safety from her vengeance for another night.

He would come to rue his arrogance with her. As his time at the palace extended, the Games of Love would become increasingly boring; she would demand new and more dangerous entertainment. This was only the beginning of her thirst for sexual theater and her determination to confiscate his "magic."

* * *

No, lust is not a stranger to him. In fact, lust, violence, degradation – all those base life conditions were deeply imbedded in his life, just like the scars that crisscrossed his body – wide, narrow, deep and shallow.

* * *

Christine, kneeling beside him, nightgown wrapped around her waist – her breasts brushing against his chest, was spending what seemed to be an inordinate amount of time following the remnants of old wounds with her fingertips. Unconscious of her nakedness, she was lost in how the scars intersected, creating odd patterns of light and shade.

The screaming inside his head threatened to overwhelm him. He lay frozen, determined not to push her away. Touch, for him, was always a violent act. The battle between his instincts and his conscious mind was a challenge he feared losing at the moment. He wanted badly to run.

Kisses followed the visual examination, her soft lips searching for every part of his body that had ever been abused and damaged. _"I want to kiss every part of you."_

" _That will take you a lifetime, my dear,"_ he said, teeth clenched – forcing himself to find a bit of sardonic humor so as not to frighten her with the depth of emotion her careful assessment and loving expression evoked in him.

" _Whatever you say,"_ she replied. _"A lifetime of kissing you will be my pleasure…and yours I hope."_

No rebuff, no disgust – just gentle, tender affection. Affection that threatened to drive him mad with pleasure. No longer a young man, he knew that his ability for erections was limited. Despite that rationalization, a lifetime of sex experienced through a prism of abuse or by his own hand had been overridden by this beautiful creature's curiosity – her own inexperience.

" _Erik, what happened to you?"_ Her green eyes darkened with concern. His flaccid phallus was cradled in her hand. Small scars stippled his organ, none particularly long or deep, just the remains of numerous tiny cuts as though a sharp knife had been employed as a paint brush creating an abstract design.

" _The little sultana,"_ was the only response he could muster.

" _Dear God. Then I must change that memory."_

Devoting her full attention to his member, her delicate fingers caressed him, slowly shifting to rhythmic, more pressured stroking. Taking him into her mouth, she rolled her tongue around the ridge of the head, then drew in as much of his length as was possible. The continued pulsing with her other hand gently squeezing his sack, found his own fingers digging into her thick, lustrous hair, as she brought him to orgasm.

" _Oh,"_ she exclaimed when he came in her mouth, then onto her face when she pulled away in surprise.

" _I should have warned you – I had no idea there would be more, or that your, um, expression of, um, compassion would take this turn,"_ he mumbled. _"I am sorry."_

" _Sorry for what?"_ Her laughter was light and easy. The nightgown is tugged off to act as a towel. _"You are such a dolt. Is this not how special loving is supposed to be? Happy? Mamma and Pappa were always happy afterward."_

Dolt, indeed. Special loving.

She flopped her now completely naked body on top of him, pressed close to plant a sticky kiss on his mouth then slid down to snuggle against his side.

" _Enough for now, my dear."_ The blankets are pulled over them. _"I believe my capacity for pleasure has been met…for the moment. And you need to get some rest from your trauma."_

* * *

How does one repay the gift of life? When she left him to go away with the boy, he was dead. His body still functioned, but that was not life.

This generosity of spirit was more than he could ever hope to repay. Her body, her love, her humor and her voice – the joy of being with her, was almost unbearable. Foolish man, bear it and relish it. How can you not?

A soft song emits from her slightly parted lips – again he wonders what she has chosen to sing in her dreams.

Sing, my Angel.

With a gentle kiss to her brow, he slips from the bed, tucking in the blankets. The house must be put right, her bath prepared and a meal cooked. Locating his watch on the nightstand, it tells him that it is 11:30 – but he has no idea if it is day or night. Most likely night, but he would prefer being certain – Adele and Nadir are scheduled to be here at noon. A short walk to look outside is in order.

A gruff laugh escapes him, as he observes his naked self. Clothing must be donned as well. On the off chance that it is daytime, he would not want to frighten Adele and Nadir with his current lack of dress were he to meet them at the door. Beware the Phantom of the Opera.

Grabbing up the clothing that is strewn around the floor, he places Christine's wrapper on the bed, taking the nightgown for washing, then makes his way to his own bedroom.

* * *

Christine's eyes flutter open then close again, unwilling to completely leave the world of sleep. Rolling from her left side over to her back, she pushes unruly curls away from her face. When she raises her arms to stretch – she winces at a sharp pain in her right shoulder. Lowering her arm, she rubs the aggrieved joint – the naked aggrieved joint. Adjusting the bedcovers, a peek underneath the white wool blankets finds her entire body is naked, nightgown nowhere in sight. She snuggles deeper under the sheets enjoying the decadent sensation of fine Egyptian cotton against her bare flesh.

A grin breaks across her face and she feels the heat of a blush redden her cheeks remembering the passion shared with Erik a few hours before, between these very sheets. How her skin came alive from the touch of his long fine fingers. The skill with which he coaxed music from his piano and violin extended to the way he touched her, making her tremble at sensations she never knew were possible.

Wishing he was still there with her to share her afterglow, she is not surprised that he is up and about, wondering mildly where he is. The door is ajar and she can hear the clinking of crockery coming from the kitchen. Erik's fine tenor sings something unfamiliar to her – one of his own compositions, perhaps.

His side of the bed had been made as much as half a bed can be, even her covers suggest that he straightened the bedclothes around her – pillow fluffed, sheets and blankets smoothed and tucked in. The afghan is folded at the foot of the bed; her wrapper lies atop the multi-colored, knitted throw.

Thoughts drift back to their lovemaking – an experience that nothing in her life prepared her for. Romantic interludes with Raoul, kissing that set her heart beating rapidly, certainly, and gentle caresses – his touch always yearning, but respectful – held no passion. Not from him, not from her. Comfortable – like the children they had been. He fourteen, she twelve. Old enough to feel the first stirrings of their sexuality, but devoid of any depth.

Her own wantonness was surprising. Teasing Erik sent ridiculous thrills through her. Making her want him even more than she considered possible. The power was hers, but only he had the ability to sate.

Observing the other ballet girls backstage at the Opera House – many of them seeking patrons who, after dancing to display not only their art, but their lithe and limber bodies – inviting the wealthy men to explore parts of those bodies with both their eyes and, if particularly attractive, their hands, educated her in the ways of sex. She was far from naïve.

The level of her desire for Erik physically had grown over the months she was in his company. The scene in Don Juan Triumphant merely defined the urges she tried to suppress. The real fear she felt that night, a mere day or so before, but a seeming eternity, only stimulated her need for him – not just as her Angel of Music, but as her lover.

The interruptions and separation – Raoul's attack, the possibility that she might actually die before wholly living, triggered a passion within her that had been buried until she thought she would lose him.

When he entered her – became one with her – her soul felt complete.

* * *

She now understood how Pappa had felt about her mother – the depth of his grief at being separated from the person who was a part of him. His violin playing had always been wonderful. She remembered evenings when they would sit in their small sitting room in front of the fire and his violin put forth joyful songs that had stirred their hearts.

She and Mamma would sit together, singing along with the music, even the songs without words. It did not matter. The rollicking melodies had them dancing around the room alone or holding hands, often laughing until they all fell down on the floor in a heap.

On many of those nights, Mamma and Pappa would tuck her into her bed in the corner of the sitting room, then retire to their bedroom and close the door. Christine knew that, unless it was very important, she was not to enter their room when the door was closed.

Most of the time, she fell asleep as soon as they put her to bed, but every so often, she would lie awake, listening to their soft voices first speaking, then making sounds that sometimes scared her – moans and groans and her mother's whimpering. The rhythmic squeaking of the bed added to her confusion.

The instruction not to enter the room when the door was closed came on the first night that Christine heard the strange noises and entered the room to discover what was wrong. Mamma and Pappa were holding each other very tightly, moving around under the blankets and kissing. When Mamma saw her standing next to the double bed, her forehead wrinkled in a frown, green eyes wide with fear, she slapped Pappa lightly on the back to have him roll off of her.

* * *

" _Christine, what are you doing out of your bed?"_

" _I heard strange sounds and I was scared. I thought you were hurt."_

Mamma exchanged a look with Pappa and laughed. _"No, my baby, Pappa and I were just loving each other in a special way."_

" _Can I love you that way?"_

" _No, little one."_ She smiled, _"This love is for grownups."_

When Mamma had become ill, she had told her that one day she would be a helpmeet to someone. Christine understood that the special loving would happen at that time for her.

So many things changed when Mamma got sick – the music did not end, but the tone changed. Pappa still played the happy songs to cheer her up, but as she became weaker and weaker, even a smile was a challenge for her. Christine stopped hearing the special loving noises after that.

Mamma's death ended the happy songs for a while – until Pappa realized that his little one needed the cheer. Nevertheless, all of his music seemed to be played in a minor key after Katrine's passing.

* * *

As they travelled Europe, he would sometimes leave her for an hour or so, but only when they had lodging in a safe hostel or boarding house. This would usually happen after they had dinner with other travelers and he had struck up a conversation with a woman.

Those evenings had him explaining that: _"Herr Krohner asked for some assistance with directions to the next town."_ Or, " _M. LePlante needs me to translate a letter from Swedish to French."_ Or, _"Mr. Wilkinson knows of a café in need of a musician, Sunday next."_

He was never gone for long, but he always seemed more cheerful upon his return. As she got older, Christine realized that he was indulging in special loving.

" _Pappa, I know you are seeking companionship with a woman. It is all right._

Relieved and not a little surprised, he stopped pretending, instead he would give a sheepish, apologetic look and shrug his shoulders. They both knew no one could replace her Mamma for longer than a night and, even those nights, were few.

His need for company other than hers became more apparent as she grew older. A longing for friends was strong for both of them. One of the reasons she bonded to Raoul so quickly was the desire to be with someone her own age.

When they arrived in Paris, becoming a part of the Giry household, life seemed more like it had when she was a little girl. Pappa had met Louis Giry twenty years earlier when he travelled to the French capital in the hopes of purchasing a violin made by the famous luthier, Jean-Baptiste Vuillaume. Word had come that one was available within his budget – money scraped together over the years for just this purpose. Mamma had insisted he make the purchase.

Louis had invited him to stay with him and his wife, Adele, for his time in Paris. They would become lifetime friends, maintaining correspondence until Louis' death ten years later. Despite the passage of years, Adele had welcomed her husband's friend and his daughter when they appeared on her doorstep eighteen months earlier.

While never seeing Pappa and Madame go off alone together, she sometimes thought they may have shared special loving while she and Meg were at the ballet. The serendipity of the combined family would be short-lived, Pappa had become ill and would die barely a year after their arrival.

When Gustave had conferred her guardianship to Madame, he revealed his trust in the stern, but kind woman, whose dark eyes seemed brighter when he was in the room.

* * *

" _My time to leave is near, Christine."_

" _Pappa, no. This will pass."_

" _I am afraid not."_ His words developed into a deep cough, full of phlegm. The handkerchief he drew to his lips wiped away the bloody mucous these bouts produced.

Madame stood in the doorway, quietly observing the exchange.

Gustave indicated Adele with a weak wave of his hand. " _Madame Giry has consented to be your legal guardian when I die. You will not be alone."_ The coughing returned in earnest.

Christine turned to Adele, who nodded, then left the room to father and daughter.

Pappa was at ease during the time before his death thanks to Madame. Whatever personal grief she felt, Christine was never aware of it. Madame cared only for her feelings, her grief.

* * *

Erik's bright song climaxes. His voice flawlessly embracing an A flat for what seems an eternity, closing the note with his unique soft cry, brings her back to the present. The Angel of Music her father promised would come into her life after his death was this man – scarred and damaged by a life full of hatred – his and others – yet his music remains pure.

" _Angels do not always appear in the form we expect. Just know when your heart is revealed in your voice, you have met your Angel of Music."_

The joy of his new music warms her heart – he is happy. The thought that she is the reason fills her with contentment. Had he ever been happy before this? Perhaps he had brief glimpses – with his dog or when absorbed in composing – those were the times he could be truly himself, but he was still alone. Moments with Nadir would have brought some joy, but she doubted that Erik would recognize that as happiness.

The music of his opera – although stirring and beautiful – was discordant and heavy. Deep sadness was the thread throughout. Even the love song was not about love, but lust. She was certain that anyone who heard the opera felt their own darker nature exposed by the content of the duet.

That her act to save him was also a betrayal – both to him and Raoul – still troubled her. Had Erik forgiven her, simply because she ultimately chose to be with him?

Raoul's expression of what he felt as her betrayal of him led him to a desire to kill both of them. Had the music touched his soul in that way? Raoul was always gentle and kind, but revealed a side that was foreign to her. How well had she known him? The longer they were together, the less she liked him. So perhaps, the music opened the door to this other self.

Music always drove her life. Did it have the potential to truly drive people to act from their baser natures? The issue never arose because music always brought her happiness and joy. Why not the opposite?

Would Erik still want Don Juan performed after this? The Opera House had a lot of money invested in it. Perhaps a short run – she wanted him to be honored for his work, but she also knew that that the first performance was cathartic. Perhaps its continuance would not be problematic.

Stretching again, being careful of her shoulder, she rolls over on her right side to sit up. Despite the dim lights, the darkness and number of the bruises along her arms and legs are shocking. The ache in her groin is also a surprise.

The pain, such as it was when Erik entered her for the first time, was momentary, or seemed so, and was soon forgotten. Still, she supposes repetition of the act may have exacerbated the original strain. Odd, though, this discomfort is pleasurable in its own way – recreating the initial sensation. Pain – both bitter and sweet cohabiting in her body.

The continued sharing of special love with Erik will, she suspects, help her healing process immensely.

Sliding her feet into the slippers sitting next to the bed, she finds the ankle bandage is gone. There is a cup, one third filled with a dark syrupy liquid, a crystal goblet filled with water, and a plate with two macarons on the bedside table with a note:

 _My dear,_

 _For your discomfort – a medicinal tea. It is cold and, I fear, bitter, so honey has been added. The water will help the nasty stuff to go down. The sweets are to absorb the medicine. I trust I do not have to encourage you to eat them. The umbrella is to assist you to walk. If you desire my help – I am, as always, at your service._

 _E_

The formal tone brings a smile. Erik has certainly been busy. She sips the brew and cringes, it is indeed bitter, acidic and sweet all at once. Despite the water to clear her throat and the camouflage the macarons provide, there is still an aftertaste.

Finishing her tea and cookies, she stands, keeping the pressure off of her left foot as she reaches for her dressing gown - managing to put it on without too much difficulty. The black umbrella's wooden handle carved in the shape of a wolf's head, a cork placed on the pointed tip, in hand, she limps her way to the bathroom.

On the vanity, another note is propped up against a jar of ointment.

 _My dear,_

 _I ran a bath for you. The water should be comfortable. I have added Epsom salts which will ease some of your aches. The ointment is Arnica for the bruises I suspect have shown themselves. Leave the door ajar so that I will hear if you wish for my assistance._

 _E_

The bathtub is situated in the corner of the small room. A wide ledge at the back of the vessel holds a stack of folded towels. Another ledge, perhaps half the size of the other lines the other wall offers a soap dish, a pile of smaller cloths, and an assortment of bath salts. A metal bar extends the length of the shelf.

The tub is three-quarters full. A small step stool stands near the end of the tub. Her fingertips test the water – it is still hot, perfect, in fact. She can imagine Erik running the hot water, then coming in every five minutes to assess her wakefulness and be assured that the bath is warm enough for her.

The wrapper is shed, tossed on the vanity's bench. Stepping on the little stool for more height, she sits on the larger shelf, swinging both feet into the welcoming water. Grasping the bar with one hand and bracing the other on the tub's edge, she bends her knees and slowly slips down and forward to submerge her body safely into the bath.

"Ah."

Too late, she realizes she failed to tie up her unruly hair. "Oh, well." The warmth of the water soothes the soreness currently defining her body. Taking up the bar of Pear's soap she lathers a small cloth to wash herself.

Sliding down further until her chin touches the water, she rinses off the soap – her unfastened hair floats around her.

"Erik," she calls, "I need your help."

Were he standing outside the door waiting for her entreaty, he could not have arrived more quickly. Although impeccably dressed as always, his garments are more casual – black pants, baggy and tucked at the ankles, bare feet shod in surprisingly colorful, beaded red velvet house slippers. A white poet's shirt, open at the neckline, and an apron complete his costume. He dons his wig, but has left his mask off – a promise to Christine for their times alone.

"Are you all right?" Words come out in a rush. "I was concerned about the bath, but wished to give you privacy. I should have carried you. You did not fall?"

"I am perfectly fine," she giggles as she sits up, her wet curls draping over her shoulders and breasts.

"Venus rising from the sea," he breathes.

She holds the washcloth out to him. "Could you wash my back?"


	12. Compensation

COMPENSATION

"Hand me that tall bottle on the ledge," Erik says. "The one with the green liquid."

Christine hands him the bottle. "What is it?"

"A shampoo I concocted – a mixture of soap, water and some herbs and fragrance. Immeasurably more pleasant than ammonia or, heaven forbid, onion juice." He sniffs. "Your glorious locks deserve better than those odiferous elements."

Christine would not argue with him – washing her hair was something she chose to avoid as much as possible. Wild was how she described her chestnut curls and taming them was a daily challenge. As for the mixture Madame used for cleansing, she was always frightened she would burn herself, having done so once. This did not take into consideration the smell bringing tears to her eyes.

The hot bath he prepared was lovely. His washing her hair will be wonderful as well.

Erik was a stickler for tidiness and cleanliness. Always immaculately turned out himself, the apartment reflected that same level of concern. The thought occurred to her that he might find her level of hygiene less than satisfactory. During her short time cohabiting with him, she found herself washing up more than usual.

Perhaps that negative element of the city was rubbing off on her. Paris was, quite frankly, filthy. The air was full of smoke, smelling of Sulphur with undertones of raw sewage. It was inescapable. Rather than eliminate the odors, the effort was made only to cover it up. While she chose soft fragrances for herself, both men and women wore heavier colognes. A cacophony of smells was the result.

* * *

" _Pappa, what is that smell?"_

" _Factories and, most of all, people and their waste."_

" _Even the people themselves stink."_

Gustave had laughed at the bluntness of his daughter's comment _. "Indeed, bathing is not something the citizens indulge in much here."_

" _Madame and Meg are not like that."_

" _Thankfully, no. We are fortunate to live in an apartment with a bath available and running water. As well as roommates who make use of them."_

* * *

Even so, Erik's home was exceptional.

"Did you learn all this when living in Persia?"

"Some. Cleanliness is very important to Muslims – Nadir could explain it better than I – my personal observation is that my body and spirit feel better after bathing. France is somewhat behind in these matters, to put it mildly," he snorts. "Tilt your head back."

After rolling up his sleeves, a glass is dipped it in the bath water and poured over Christine's head, repeating this several times, he massages in the green liquid into her scalp, running his fingers through the wet curls.

"Do you shampoo your hair?"

"No, I just use soap and water."

"Maybe you should. It might help your hair grow."

Erik huffs. "My dear, your obsession with my hair is admirable. Much of the loss is due to my age. There are also other issues – as you are very much aware now, my skin is dry and rough."

"We could try. You purchased or made all these items for me – perhaps if you used them, the condition of your hair and skin would improve."

"If it will please you," he grunts, "my body appears to be under your complete control."

"Is that bad?" she teases.

"Not at all, my dear. I would not have it any other way," he replies. The plug is pulled from the tub to allow the water to drain. "Now stand up, we must rinse you off. The bathwater has done its job, but rinsing with dirty water, is just that, rinsing with dirty water – totally contrary to the intent of washing."

She gives both her hands to Erik and he pulls her up from the water. Attaching a rubber hose with a shower head attached to the faucet, he opens the knobs to run fresh water. "There is an actual shower in my bathroom, but this will have to do for now." The water flows over her.

"It feels like rain, warm rain," she giggles. "This is so much fun."

"My dear, you create joy and happiness with your mere presence," Erik declares as he turns off the faucets, grabbing a towel from the stack on the tub's ledge, he wraps it around her. "Let us get you dried off." He pulls the stool over with his foot and guides her over the edge of the tub, onto the stool and safely onto the small rag rug next to the tub

"Lean over so I can dry your hair," he instructs. Bringing her hair forward, he wraps another towel around her head, absorbing most of the water. "There, now you can stand up again."

As she pushes her hair off her face, the body wrap falls to the floor. "Oops."

Erik's eyes smile at this woman whom he fears will be the death of him – in only the best possible way. Adorable is the word that comes to mind. Clearing his throat, attempting to ignore the stirring he feels in his groin, he takes up another towel, wraps it around her and helps her walk to the vanity where her new chemise, drawers and dressing gown await.

"Before you dress, let us look at your bruises and treat them with the arnica ointment." While the bruising is extensive, it is not as bad as he feared it might be. "I was concerned that you would have more injuries on your body. You were able to keep to your feet through much of the struggle?"

Christine nods. "My clothing helped, too, I think."

"How is the pain?"

"Better, I think."

"The willow bark tea is helping. I will prepare another dose for you, it takes quite a bit for it to really work well. Even allowing the tea to dehydrate, it is still necessary to consume a sizeable amount for it to be effective."

After opening the tub of ointment, he rubs it on the bruises dotting her arms and legs – then massages it into her right shoulder and left ankle. A fresh elastic bandage is applied to her foot, followed by new stockings and her ballet slippers.

Christine's eyes never leave him, a small smile on her lips.

Removing the towel, he examines her body, finding a large bruise on her right hip, he applies ointment. Picking up her drawers, he holds them for her to step in to. Ruching the chemise, he places it over her head and smooths it over her shoulders and body. Ending the process of gowning her with the wrapper.

Standing back to look at her, he declares her, "Perfect."

"Yes, you are," she replies, putting her arms around him and pressing her lips against his.

Still awkward with touching her when unrelated to healing, he pulls back. "You need to eat something. The pain medication will make you sick if you don't eat something," he mumbles.

"It is just a kiss, Erik," Christine explains. "Although I would not be averse to more special loving, this _is_ just a kiss."

With that, he returns her embrace and their lips connect at a perfect angle, mouths slightly open, tongues touching gently and breathing into one another sharing their lives. Just a kiss. _Oh, my dear, how can you know how magnificent "just a kiss" is for me?_

Breaking the embrace, Christine comments that her hair has dampened her gown. "My wrapper is all wet."

"My fault." He opens a drawer of the dresser and removes another dressing gown – this one in coral, the chambray fabric a little heavier than the batiste.

"Your hair must be tended to before you put it on."

Using another towel, he rubs and blots her long tresses, picking up one of the other bottles, he rubs some pomade in his hands and applies it to her hair. A wide-toothed comb detangles her curls. A white ribbon secures her hair at the nape of her neck in a ponytail.

After helping her into her new wrapper, he offers his arm, "Dinner, my dear?"

"What time is it?"

"12:30."

"Are we not expecting Madame and Nadir?"

"They will be here at noon. It is just after midnight."

"Oh, my," she exclaims. "So we could still…." Mischief lights up her eyes.

"Yes, we could – but you must eat. There are things we need to discuss before they arrive."

* * *

Erik had considered retaining the house of his birth, particularly because of the land. Land would never lose value, but Rouen was not someplace he necessarily wished to return to. Selling it all and banking the money was his best option.

The idea that he was an exceptionally wealthy man was still difficult for him to perceive. So many years of slavery, for what else could you call living in a cage, being on display, and making money for your captors?

" _You are certainly a money maker for us, monster boy."_

" _Where is my share?"_

" _You have housing and food. You are lucky."_

" _And if I stopped eating and died, then what would you have?'_

His captor thought on that a bit, he was a businessman after all – Erik's argument made sense and his treatment had improved. Javert actually began paying him – money Erik had squirreled away. There was never much he chose to buy for himself, a tasty bit of food from a vendor or a sweet drink. Mostly the money was hoarded. When he bade his bloody farewell, he had these funds, plus what he took from the dead body of the gypsy king. An entire day's take from the shows.

He had been grateful for the wedding – most of the camp was drunk, asleep or engaged in carnal activities. No one paid him any mind. He filled a pack with bread, dried meat and some fruit as well as two canteens of water. Sneaking into the master's tent, he found the fiddle Javert played for the crowds. Not a fine piece, but would do for now.

Replacing his worn clothing with items from Javert's trunk including newly made leather boots and a woolen jacket. The shirts and pants were a bit long in the sleeves and legs, but he would grow into them. More clothing was stuffed into another sack. A slouch hat hung on a hook above his cot – the wide brim would help hide his face, Erik put it on, then was ready to leave.

The horses had been hobbled for the night. He had never ridden, but would often visit the animals, finding comfort in the fact that they did not judge him by his face, but by his kindness, often sharing an apple or carrot from his rations.

One horse, in particular caught his attention, Charon – a black steed with a diamond patch on his forehead – whinnied as Erik approached. The horse seemed to want an exodus from this place as much as he. He saddled the horse and said a small prayer that he would be able to stay on. Hitching his supplies to the back of the saddle. He pulled himself up on Charon's back and rode from the campsite.

For the first time in years, he sang freely for himself and his new friend, Charon. The horse appeared to understand the inexperience of the young rider and, rather than try to buck him off, kept to a gentle canter.

* * *

They finished eating their omelets. "Is there anything you cannot do?" she asked wiping her lips with a napkin.

"One must eat and live, even if one is below ground," Erik responds. "I have been alone for most of my life, my dear. One copes."

"I am sorry," she replies. "I did not mean it in that way."

"There has been much time to learn and study – my pranks at the Opera House arose from boredom. A need to be around people. That was not very successful, though."

"I beg to differ," she claims.

"A rather circuitous route to success. I am deeply sorry for frightening you. That was never my wish."

"All forgotten."

"No, it is not," he sighs. "May I ask you something?"

"Of course."

"What were you thinking when you believed me to be the Angel of Music?"

"What you mean?"

"Did you think I was your father?"

"No. No, not exactly." She tips her head with a quizzical look. "You were my Angel, sent by my father. I would never mistake you for my father." She rolls her eyes.

"I am so much older."

"You are concerned about our love making, are you?" She gets up and limps over to him, planting herself on his lap, kissing him soundly, then licks his lips. "Yum, jam."

He brings the napkin up to his mouth, wiping his deformity. "I'm sorry."

A light smack to his hand brings a flash of anger to his eyes.

Christine raises an eyebrow – an equivalent flash of her own anger. "There was no jam on the outside of your mouth, I was teasing you," she states, then, in a softer tone, "I cannot imagine how difficult it was for you, but you must know that I love your face because it _is_ yourface. I will never mock you."

She adjusts herself on his lap, resting her head against his shoulder.

"I truly believe that Pappa sent you to me – however that turned out to be. I still miss him so," tears fill her eyes. "He was my entire life, and I felt so lost. You - Madame and Meg are my family. And Nadir, it would appear."

She snuggles closer to him, his body is solid against hers and she melts into his hug. The feel of him holding her is all she needs to feel safe. "Now what did you want to discuss?"

"Money."

"Well, I have none – or very little. My pay is small, but it helps pay the rent ," Christine says. She sits up straight and turns toward Erik. "Oh, if I live with you, then Madame will not have my share."

"I know – that is something we must make some decisions about," Erik replies. "Also, our…um…marriage. That is, if you still wish to marry."

Christine's eyes flash again. "Just stop that nonsense. In my note to Madame I asked her to bring my papers so that we could go to the mairie and have the marriage business taken care of."

"Marriage business?" Erik is surprised at her nonchalance. "I would think you would want a wedding."

"No. You wanted the wedding," is her retort. "I feel married now, but everyone else seems to think that we must be legally wed, so as soon as I can walk comfortably, we will take care of the legalities. We must post banns and fill out a lot of papers, then we can marry in ten days."

"You have researched this?"

She tsked. "Of course. It is quite different in Sweden at least for the farmers," she explains. "When Pappa wanted to marry Mamma, he participated in what was called a nattfrieri – night proposal."

* * *

Gustave had been concerned when he saw so many other boys approaching the farm of Katrine's father. _"Who do you wish to wed."_

" _Katrine Oleffsson, of course. She is the loveliest girl, hearty as well."_

This other boy was strongly built and was likely a good farmer. All he had to offer was his music.

" _Gustave Daae, will you play for me?"_

He had been surprised when the beautiful girl with eyes the color of the sky approached him at church. His farm was small, but his music was well known. Was that enough to offer a girl?

Gustave had decided that he would take a chance. He would have to best five others for the privilege of climbing through Katrine's window.

Some special angels must have been with him that night – first one, then another succumbed to the left hook his father had taught him. The other two tripped on their own feet, stumbling on the bramble surrounding Katrine's house.

He had won!

Gustave climbed in through Katrine's window to lay down on top of the counterpane. Katrine lay under the counterpane, dressed in a blouse and skirt, covering her chemise. The other boys watched through the window to see if Katrine would turn her back on Gustave or accept his presence.

A brilliant smile lit up her face. " _Oh, Gustave Daae, I am so happy that you won."_

Thus the families made the arrangements for a formal betrothal and brollop – wedding. Gustave picked Katrine up at her house in a carriage and they rode to the church together.

After the ceremony and wedding party, Katrine's mother and female relatives undressed her, undoing her hair and put her to bed wearing only her chemise and the bridal crown – the symbol of her virginity. Gustave was helped to bed by the men, salted with off-color jokes and much knowing laughter.

In the morning, Gustave announced his marriage gift. _"My love, my life – all I have is yours."_ Katrine had blushed furiously at this formal declaration that she had pleased her husband in the marriage bed.

Despite tradition that Katrine wear different clothing announcing her married state, Gustave did not require that she cut off her hair. She could wear a cap to cover it entirely. _"Your hair is too lovely."_

* * *

"That does seem to be quite a lot," Erik admits.

"I do suppose that what occurred last night could qualify – Pappa did not go to quite the lengths for Mamma that you did to win me." Teasing him again. "We have already taken care of the wedding night. I cannot imagine Madame and Meg undressing me and putting me to bed," she chortles, "or Nadir bringing you to me. Besides, I would no longer be able to wear the bridal crown – there is a penalty if it is discovered that the brides wears the crown, but was not a virgin."

"What about the gown?"

"I will use this time as an invalid to mend it and make it more practical to wear for the civil ceremony. Mamma taught me how to sew – I am quite adept."

The pride in her voice brings yet another smile to Erik's lips. He would cry, but he is certain she would smack him again. Instead, he pulls her close and kisses her forehead. "I would never ask you to cut your hair and I am not a big fan of crowns." He waits a beat. "Church?"

"I attend Mass with Madame, but I am not Catholic," she answers. "You? You were baptized Catholic."

His eyes grow distant.

* * *

" _Marie, hurry please, we will be late for Mass,"_ Madeleine pushed the jeweled hatpin through her new felt hat, covered with small clusters of silk wildflowers. Her day dress is a brilliant forest green, taking up the color of her eyes.

" _What is the rush? We have plenty of time."_

" _The new doctor is planning to attend services today and I wanted to make his acquaintance…to speak to him about Erik."_

" _So you dress up in your finest to speak about Erik?"_ Marie chuffed.

Madeleine's laugh was a light tinkle of sound, two notes of an aria only she knew.

" _Is that what church has become to you?"_

" _God stole my husband and left me with that-that child."_ The lilting soprano abandoned for the raging harpy. _"For me, that is all the church is good for now."_ She grabbed up her bag and opened the door. A glance to her right caught a small movement. " _Those who eavesdrop tend to hear ill of themselves, Erik. Go to your room and say your prayers."_

" _Why must you be so cruel to him? He bears no fault for his Charles' death nor his appearance."_

" _I know that,"_ Madeleine spits. _"I know that."_ The tone resigned. _"Let us go."_ A wave of her hand motions Marie to exit. " _God help us all."_

* * *

"No," Erik replies, closing his eyes to the memory, "a civil ceremony will be perfect."

"That is decided then. So we just need to make sure that Madame and Meg are taken care of?" she queries. "Do you have money?"

Erik laughs, "Yes, my dear, I have money. You will have your marriage gift as well, when I open an account for you at the bank. I must write a will, too, for when I…pass away."

Christine frowns. "None of that sort of talk," she orders. "Is that is all we must discuss: that we will be wed and Madame and Meg will have money?"

"I suppose that is so," he concurs.

"Well, I have eaten and taken my medicines. We have dealt with our wedding and money." The issues enumerated on her fingers. "Can we now go back to bed?" She whispers while nibbling on his ear lobe.

"The dishes…"

"Can wait."


	13. Restitution

RESTITUTION

Christine settles into the armchair chair, her left foot elevated on a small footstool. The coral dressing gown is arranged around her so as not to reveal her chemise. The gown, with its white lace ruffles and satin bows, is perfect for home wear, no corset necessary, but she is concerned that it may not be appropriate for entertaining.

" _You look beautiful."_

" _Do you think they will know?"_

" _Know? What?"_

" _You know…"_

Erik's face goes blank, then awareness takes hold and his earlobes turn red. _"Do you want to change into something else?"_

" _No. I… No."_

Ultimately, she and Erik agree the encumbrances necessary for her to wear a day dress make little sense, since she is a house bound invalid. Truth be told, getting dressed and undressed was exceedingly tiresome. Even when performing, she could not recall having as many costume changes as real life presented to her these past days. Comfort was now her first priority, especially since she has so many new undergarments and nightwear.

" _You are spoiling me with this lavish lingerie – peignoirs, gowns, chemises…drawers."_

" _The mistress of the shop was very helpful. I may have been somewhat effusive when describing you, thus, I believe she saw her till growing in relation to how smitten I appeared to be. I could not refuse much of what she suggested."_

" _But, we were not together…"_

" _I was a bit mad. I also had some bizarre, for me in any event, hope. There was something exhilarating about buying things for you."_

" _Thank you."_

Erik, on the other hand, felt it necessary to "dress." While he did not put on his frock coat, he chose fitted trousers and a burgundy, cut-velvet smoking jacket. The red house slippers were exchanged for a similar pair in black. Christine loves him in a bit of color – shades of red flattered his coloring and, judging from the times she had seen him in a color other than black, the jacket or hat or shoes incorporated red in some way. Blue might look well, too. She would have to suggest it.

A short surveille of the room sees him perfectly coordinated with the colors of the sitting room. Why should she think it would be otherwise? So much to still learn about this mysterious man. Whatever he attempted in his life he had perfected.

A vague shiver creeps down her spine at the thought of his life before he left Persia behind, complete with his promise to Nadir to never kill again. In their short time together, Erik was painfully honest – almost daring her to change her course – to leave, even after giving herself to him so completely.

* * *

" _The gypsy king was merely the first, Christine."_

" _I know."_

" _That does not bother you?"_

" _Of course it bothers me, but you killed him in self-defense."_

" _In a manner of speaking – I killed him in revenge, but a crime of passion, yes."_

" _Others?"_

" _You know there were – more than I can or care to remember, I fear. I have no excuse other than I felt damned already – what were one or one hundred more sins? My fate appeared to have been sealed at my birth. Hell was my life – hell would be my afterlife."_

" _What changed?"_

" _Oddly enough, another death that I deliberately caused – assisting Nadir's son to die. That was an act of love. My heart, or soul, whatever you want to call it, opened. It never occurred to me that I was even entitled to feel anything but hate for and, worse, disinterest in human life. Reza gave my humanity back to me."_

" _But you continued to kill?"_

" _For a time – it was like an addiction to a drug. There were practical reasons as well – strange as that may sound. The demands of the little sultana, depraved as they might have been…I did not want to die. When the torture and death of the young slave girl was to be an object of entertainment, solely because of her rejection of me, I could not – would not participate. That was my death sentence."_

" _Nadir saved you."_

" _Yes."_

" _You have not killed since?"_

" _No."_

* * *

What he shared was no surprise - her own eyes gave witness to the potential cruelty inside him capable of taking a life. When he lassoed Raoul on the roof, she witnessed how he killed in the distant past. Despite his rage when she unmasked him not once, but twice, there was an underlying humanity that held him in check.

The burden of his past is always present in him, though. She wishes he would go to the Catholic confession – whether he believes or not. Her observation of people after receiving the sacrament suggests a lifting of heavy burdens. Confession was an apt name for it. Had Erik ever confessed? Perhaps his conversations with her, along with the stories that Nadir related, are his way of expiating his sins. Perhaps she is his confessor.

"The table is set for five. It is highly probable that Adele and Nadir will bring Meg with them. I would not wish her to feel unwelcome with only four places set for luncheon," he calls out, seeking her agreement. "Does that seem a good idea?"

Silence.

"Christine?"

"What? I am sorry, I seem to have drifted off," Christine says, smiling at him.

"Somewhere pleasant, I hope." Erik raises an eyebrow.

"I was thinking about you," she admits. "About how much I love you and want to spend my life with you."

"All that, hmm?" His amber eyes examine her. "Even those elements from my past that are less than savory?"

Christine lowers her eyes. "I cannot fool you, can I?"

"The evil I have perpetrated dwells deep within me. You were quite correct in labeling me a creature of darkness. The pitiful part…mmm, possibly being a bit much," he attempts a smile. "It is something I cannot escape. You, however, have options. Thus, I continue to inquire if you still wish to marry me. My sins are not yours to bear."

"Come sit by me," she says, reaching out her hand.

Abandoning his chores, he take a seat on the arm of her chair and accepts the hand she offers him, enclosing it in both of his.

"Would you consider going to confession at the church? I see so many people leave…"

Tossing his head back, he snorts. "Somehow I think the priest might find my story so grim, he would call the police on the spot – forget granting absolution. That, or call for an exorcism. Having experienced one already, I believe I will pass on the remotest possibility of having to go through _that_ again."

"Then you must continue revealing to me that which has festered within you for far too long."

"You are my saving grace, Christine Daae. There is no need for you to have any more images of my past in your head."

"When I was a little girl, my mother told me that one day I would be a helpmeet to a man."

"Odd word – Biblical?"

"Yes, mentioned only once in Genesis. Mamma said that I would come to know a man I could help with his life – help him to fulfillment." Her eyes search his face. "You are that man. I knew this the first time I saw you – as a man…not an angel. My belief was confirmed when you took me from the stage back to the music room."

"My distorted soul convinced you that I was your mate?

"Yes," is her simple response, ignoring his sarcasm. "You see: I chose and I won."

"Ah, yes, the challenge." Issuing a deep sigh, he raises her hand to his lips, closing his eyes. Lifting her hand to his unmarred cheek, he says, "You are a formidable woman, my dear. I am not worthy of you."

"Then become so – if that is what you _truly_ believe," she retorts. "Humility is not your strong suit, Erik."

A resonant laugh explodes from him, unhindered and full of joy, accompanied by a look of surprise that he is the one making the sound. The music in his voice has him beaming. "Good lord, I am laughing." The comment elicits more laughter from both of them. "You already know me so well." Standing up, bracing his hands on the arms of the chair, he bends over to kiss her soundly on the mouth. "I _truly_ believe that I am not worthy of you, but am so grateful you are willing to put up with me."

"Maestro, I do believe that is the first time you have initiated a kiss. First laugh, first kiss – bravo. Now get back to our dinner." She shoos him off. Her eyes bright with tears at his freedom from pain – if only for now.

"As you say, my dear." He returns to his chores, humming the same melody Christine remembers from the day before.

"What is that you are humming?"

"Something I am working on – I am not certain what it will be. A work in progress."

"You told me you wrote a marriage ceremony for us."

"It is not that, I assure you." He grimaces.

"Why?"

"That has gone the way of Don Juan Triumphant along with the man I was when I wrote it."

"You will keep me apprised?"

"I do not see how I can avoid it," he comments. "It is for you, my dear. Everything I do now is for you."

Her heart leaps at his words, leaving her breathless. "Do you know how much I love you?"

"No, but I am willing to find out. Every day – for as long as we live." He steps back from the table. "What do you think?"

"From what I can see, the table looks lovely."

"This is the first time I have used this service. It was from my family home." Matter of fact, no bitterness.

"Well, it shan't be the last – our first dinner party," Christine remarks. While determined to unearth his past, this moment is too precious to start prying about dinnerware and cutlery.

The alarm sounds.

"Here they are." His look a mixture of pride and fear.

"It will be fine," Christine assures him. She adjust the neckline of her wrapper once more time and awaits the entry of her friends – her family.

Erik grabs his mask from the sideboard before going to the street entrance to let Adele, Nadir and, possibly, Meg into the new apartment.

A few moments later, Meg precedes the rest of the group into the sitting room. Her dress, in her favorite shade of pink, is perhaps a bit childish for a young woman of eighteen – the skirt a fraction too short and full to be stylish. Christine makes a mental note that Meg needs some new clothes. How quickly she forgot that money for new clothing was scarce. Meg wore the outfit because it was her best.

Blonde ponytails bouncing, she runs to her friend for a hug and kneels on the floor next to her. Dropping the packages she is carrying beside her, she hands Christine a cane. "What happened? Maman said you would explain things to me. I was so worried when you did not come home with her."

Christine takes the cane, laying it against the edge of her chair, then takes Meg's hand in hers and says, "I will tell you, and everyone, everything in a bit – for the moment, let us get comfortable."

Meg settles herself on the floor as Adele and Nadir enter the room, Erik bringing up the rear.

Upon entering the drawing room and observing Christine's dressing gown and her curls only moderately contained by a satin ribbon tied in a bow at the nape of her neck, Adele and Nadir exchange a knowing look. "I told you," she whispers to him.

With a grin, Nadir turns to look at Erik, who stares back at him. Nadir winks, then addresses Christine, "How are you feeling, Mam'selle?" He drapes some clothing over one of the dining room chairs, then holds up the violin case for Christine to see before placing it on top of the piano.

"Oh, thank you for bringing the violin," she says, acknowledging his action. "In response to your question," she replies, "with the exception of a sore ankle and shoulder – never better." Aquamarine eyes shining like the jewels they resemble. There is no doubt that Adele and this gentle man are aware that their marriage has been consummated – whether blessed by the courts or God or anyone other than themselves – and finds that she is not bothered by it at all. "And yourself, Monsieur."

"As well. As well."

Adele shoots a fierce look at Christine, who answers her with a brilliant smile. "Madame. Please. Sit down."

"Erik, you have done well with your new home," Adele says as she takes a seat on the settee, laying Christine's new cloak over the arm and placing a wooden box on the floor next to her feet.

Sensing the undertone of hurt in her voice, he explains, "I was concerned that events might force me to relocate quickly, a habit I acquired over the years, and I wanted to be prepared. We are all agreed that I was less than sane these past days."

"Days? That is certainly an understatement," Adele harrumphs.

He lifts a plate of meringues from the dining table and places it on the coffee table in front of her.

Nadir attempts to hide a chuckle with his hand.

Adele frowns at him.

He shrugs. "It seemed a good idea when I suggested it to him."

"So you knew?"

"I meant buying you the meringues, but yes, I knew. Do you think he was able to move all this furniture himself? The piano nearly gave both Darius and me hernias," Nadir responds. "At times it is best to just let Erik do what he wants. He was harming no one."

"But he was planning to…" she argues.

"As far as I was aware, he simply wanted a change. I suggested finding a real apartment without traps set to kill his visitors if he happens to be in a bad mood – which is often – but he rejected the idea."

"Stop!" Christine orders. "This is supposed to be a happy visit to our new home. How or why it came to be is of no importance. This is our family – we are all we have, let us act that way."

Meg looks around at everyone – confused. "This is your new home? This is Uncle Erik's new home?" Her face breaks into a bright smile. "Oh, Christine, how simply wonderful." She jumps up and runs to Erik who has returned to his post at the kitchen door, wary of straying too close to Adele.

"Are you going to get married?" she asks as she grabs him around the waist, nearly throwing him off balance.

His eyes seek out Christine – she nods. "Yes, we are going to be married, as soon as we can post banns and get the necessary paperwork to the mairie – the amount of paperwork they require is unbelievable.

"Did you bring my papers, Madame?" Christine inquires.

Adele nods and lifts the box from the floor. "These are all your personal items," she says. "I requested that Nadir bring his papers and I collected mine as well since we will need them to be witnesses."

"Erik?"

"My birth records are in the Bible." With awkward pats on her back with both hands, he extricates himself from Meg's hug and walks to the bookcase. "My other papers are here – he removes a file from a drawer. I took the liberty of writing a will while you slept, my dear, along with a marriage contract, which needs to be submitted when we marry. Once the papers have your approval, I will have them notarized."

He walks to Christine's chair and rests a hand on her shoulder. "Christine was upset when I mentioned a will, but I want no one here to be caught unawares if I die. My wealth is not such that I would wish it to go to the state.

"This should have been done sooner to protect all of you. I apologize. It took the shock of these past days to bring me to my senses."

Christine shifts in the chair to look up at him. "Your 'wealth'?"

"You asked if I had money and I responded in the affirmative, did I not?"

"There is a difference between having some money and wealth," she sputters.

"Pray tell what that might be."

"Wealth is property, bank accounts, income."

"Yes?"

"Oh. I had no idea."

"Nor I," adds Adele.

"You are rich, Uncle Erik?" Meg chimes in. "How absolutely wonderful."

"To be honest, I assumed you did not live in the cellar of the Opera House due to lack of funds," Nadir steps in. "I suspect that he could have easily accumulated a fortune during his travels." Head tipped forward, bushy eyebrows raised and hooded eyes seek an answer from Erik.

"That is so." A warning look sparks from his amber eyes as he clears his throat. "Adele and Nadir, the buildings in which you reside will be signed over to you. I purchased them some years back, but knew that you would not accept anything from me at no cost, so I exacted a minimal rent. This is our wedding gift to you."

"You are my landlord?" Nadir exclaims.

"Yes. At the moment," Erik responds. "Now may I finish, or do you wish to expound on how you believe I acquired money during the days _before_ I even knew of your existence, or _since_ we parted company in Persia?"

"Erik," Christine exclaims, slapping his hand. "Do not be rude."

Erik raises his eyes to the ceiling and takes a deep breath. "Yes, my dear." To Nadir, "May I continue?"

"By all means." The sarcasm in Nadir's voice is unmistakable.

"A manager oversees all my properties. He will continue to deal with any repairs or needs you might have in that regard. All rents collected will be paid to you, in addition to a monthly allowance for living expenses. That you will receive from my lawyer. I also considered offering you the manager's position, if it was something that might appeal to you. It would assuage the feeling I believe you have about accepting such a gift from me. The current manager could be given employment elsewhere or continue under your direction.

"You will no longer have a need to work if you choose not to. This money will continue for as long as you live. I must advise, that the other apartments are being rented at reduced rates to the employees of the Opera House or the Comedie Francaise, so the income is minimal. However, you wish to handle that is up to you, but this was one way I hoped to make up for the mischief I caused for them and to help the young artists."

Adele shakes her head. "This is too much, Erik." Without warning, tears flow down her stern face. Pulling a handkerchief with tatted edges from her sleeve, she dabs her eyes.

"Our Meg will receive her own allowance and a sufficient dowry so that she does not have to deal with the vile creatures who prey on dancers like herself. This will afford her the ability to marry someone of her choice – or to not marry at all, if she so chooses.

"Christine will, of course, receive the balance of my estate. We will discuss this further in private."

Satisfied with his announcements, he says, "Now, let us eat the luncheon I have planned." With a quick kiss to Christine's head, he retreats to the safe haven of the kitchen.

The silence is perfect.

"Erik, do not dare make some overwhelming announcement then just leave the room as if nothing happened," Christine calls out after him.

Erik returns to the doorway, the smirk on his face suggests that he achieved his goal – a perfect performance. Everyone receiving a gift – his being a completely flummoxed audience.

"My friend, I knew you were a hoarder of valuable items – the jewels from the Shah's treasury are example enough, but are you quite sure you have the money to support your generosity? More importantly, that this is how you wish to spend that money?" Nadir asks.

"The jewels are indeed part of my 'hoard' as you call it. I built him an incredible palace and he would repay me with death and, in case you have forgotten, left you with nothing. I have been putting funds away since I was the captive of gypsies – so, for close to forty odd years I have been acquiring a fortune. I believe that I have the knowledge of how much I have, and how I wish to deal with it."

"The 20,000 francs from the Opera?" Adele asks.

"Went toward paying for the buildings in which you reside, as well as a few others. If Christine wishes to live above ground, then she will have her choice of homes or we can purchase something else.

"What use have I for that much money – one night's take from the box office? From time to time I would leave packets of currency for performers needing funds. Those fools barely pay you a living wage on their own – I was simply taking their money to make them honest men. We both know very well that I seldom received the money. It was a game."

"Uncle Erik, Nadine told me about finding an envelope with 100 francs in it when she ruined her shoes," Meg says. "Was that from you?"

"The little brunette who is tinier than even you?"

"Yes," Meg answers. "That is more than her contract pays her in a month. She was able to buy the ballet shoes and street shoes as well with some left over."

"Good."

"Erik, we never knew," Adele interjects.

"Had I intended you to know, I would have told you," he says quietly. "The only reason I am telling you now is things have changed as they are wont to do. When Christine mentioned that you would no longer have her share for rent, I wondered how I could have allowed you that concern at all."

"You always made certain we had enough," Adele argues.

"Money for errands – that is not how you care for family," he responds. "In any event that matters not anymore."

"Uncle Erik?"

"Yes, Meg."

"About the dowry…"

"Yes?"

"Well remember when you told Maman that I would be an Empress?"

Erik nods.

"Would I still have to marry an Emperor?"

"Only if you wanted to."

"What about having to live with a rich man and not be married and maybe get cast aside like some of the girls?"

"What do you mean?"

"Monique was just tossed out by her patron because she turned 22 and was not useful to him anymore – at least that is what she told us."

"Absolutely not." Erik asserts.

The tension that trapped her body is released with a deep sigh.

"What is going on, Meg?" Christine asks.

* * *

" _Monsieur Robert, please, I must attend to my lessons."_ Meg pleads to the obese man, blocking the stairway to the stage. Her head is lowered, so she does not have to look at his mottled face or smell breath heavy with the stench of cigars and whiskey.

" _Your lessons can wait. Madame Giry is still in her office,"_ he laughs. _"She has been hiding you from me."_

" _I do not know what you mean."_

" _Do not think I do not know that you and the little songbird are her pets. She is saving you for the noble deChagnys."_ He growls. _"My wealth far exceeds theirs. Pretty boys both of them."_ A pudgy hand reaches for a lock of her hair, he uses it to pull her closer to him so he can bend down and whisper, " _I can buy you pretty things and show you other pleasures."_

" _I am a dancer, Monsieur, which is all I want."_ Fear turns her stomach, she forces down the bile that rises in her throat.

" _Since when do beautiful women not want beautiful things?"_

" _But I am a girl, not a woman."_

Voices are heard in the stairwell, the rest of the troupe returning for class.

" _All the better – there is so much I can teach you,"_ he laughs, releasing her hair and stepping back. _"I will be speaking with Madame Giry and the managers."_

* * *

"The man who was taking care of Monique has been- um- watching me."

"Meg! Why did you not tell me?" Adele asks.

"He said that he knew you kept me away from the patrons and threatened to tell the managers. "

"Did he hurt you in any way?" Erik asks through clenched teeth, eyes burning.

"No…no," she assures him. "He just tried to get close to me. He smelled so bad. Monique always complained that he smoked and was dirty."

All eyes shift focus to Adele.

"It is part of my job. What do you want me to say? I am sorry?" The words are rough and filled with anguish. "It is a fact of this life. The girls make so little and they need to provide for themselves. The men take care of them. If things go well, they can have a patron for several years and be able to keep some of the money. On occasion they will actually marry."

"You know very well how rare marriage is for the ballet rats," Erik says.

"Leave her be," Nadir interjects. "Can you not see that she is upset? Do you think this is something she wishes to do?"

"No, I do not. I am an expert on how cheap human flesh is to some people. I am sorry, Adele," Erik says. "I am upset with myself. Maybe your pay, the girls' pay would have been more had I not been taking their money, such as it was."

"No, they would have kept it for themselves. This is how things were long before you got involved," she answers. Pressing her fist to her mouth, staring at nothing she sinks into the settee. "This is just how things are now. I did my best to protect Christine and Meg – my girls. When Raoul became our new patron and gave me the note for Christine, I was relieved."

Erik raises an eyebrow.

"Do not cock your eyebrow at me. He is a vicomte and would have been a good match for her. Young, handsome – clean – and of the nobility. His brother takes excellent care of Sorelli."

"And I was a monster."

"No. Never accuse me of that – never." She pounds her stick on the floor. "I did not know how you felt. You are not the most open person about your feelings now, are you? You were teaching her, developing her voice to enhance her career. That was all I was aware of, anything else was hidden. Like you roaming inside the walls of the Opera House. Like this house." Her dark eyes dare him to rebut her. " _And_ she seemed to be very pleased about his attentions."

"You were, Christine," Meg chimes in. "All you could talk about was Raoul and Perros and how handsome he was."

Erik's fingers clench, becoming fists.

A frown wrinkles Christine's brow, with lips pursed she cautions Meg, "He-was-a-friend-from-my-childhood."

"But…"

"Meg. Stop," Adele scolds.

Christine waves her hand. "It is all right, Madame. She is correct. For a time I thought I loved him," she admits. Her eyes gravitate to Erik, still as a statue – waiting for her next words. "But when pressed, in a most challenging situation, I discovered where my heart and my life truly lay."

Almost imperceptibly, Erik relaxes, allowing Christine to follow suit.

"What happened? You were going to tell me what happened," Meg insists.

"Perhaps we should wait on luncheon, if that is all right with you, Erik."

"Of course."

"Come sit by me. Please."

He returns to his place on the arm of her chair – she gives him her hand.

Nadir sits down next to Adele – putting an arm around her, he gives her a gentle squeeze.

"You already know what happened when Raoul and Phillipe came to the flat – I assume you were listening at the door." She smiles down at Meg.

"Yes, I heard all of that. Raoul was very angry, but so were you. So was everybody."

"Yes, Raoul was so angry that he followed Madame and me to the Opera House the next day."

Meg cocks her head to one side. "And?"

"Raoul tried to kill me…and himself."

Meg's blue eyes grow wide, her mouth falls open. She looks to her mother. Adele nods.

Christine relates the details of her battle with Raoul and her ultimate rescue, finishing the story with: "That is how my ankle and shoulder were injured."

"Oh, Christine. I am so happy that you were found." Meg rests her head on Christine's lap. Then sits upright. "Where is Raoul? Did the police come?"

"His brother took him home," Erik answers.

"Do you think he will try to hurt you again?"

"I believe not; I hope not."

"I am sorry he hurt you, Christine." Meg hugs her around the waist.

Christine strokes her head. "Me, too."

"I am happy you are marrying Uncle Erik."

"Me, too."

"Well, at the risk of being considered a terrible host at my first party, shall we adjourn to the dining room for a light meal?" Erik says, standing up. "I had some success with omelets earlier…"

His eyes find Christine – her cheeks flush.

"And thought you might enjoy them as well."

Nadir chortles, "I am not sure how I am going to know how to act around you anymore. Erik happy. Who could ever guess?"

Erik ignores him. "Adele, please do not eat any more meringues until you have eaten your meal."

Nadir's hardy laugh supports Erik's attempt at levity, dissolving the tension holding them in thrall.

"Let me help you," Adele offers, following Erik into the kitchen. "I am not certain I can trust your cooking skills. What are you serving with the eggs? I hope you have grated the cheese properly…."

Christine slides her leg off the stool, bending over to hug Meg. Rocking one another, Christine kisses the younger girl on the forehead. "Erik will not let anyone hurt either one of us ever again."

"He most certainly will not, particularly with me as his lieutenant," Nadir assures them. Taking Meg's hand he helps her to her feet. Opening his arms to Christine, "May I carry you to your seat, Mam'selle?"

"I would be most grateful, thank you."

* * *

 **A/N – A few weeks back, I found an error I wanted to correct in one of my chapters. Being a newby to FF (this is my first venture into fan fiction) and not entirely familiar with how to make corrections, I believe I confused the order of chapters – the confusion appears to have affected chapters 4-6. One chapter may have actually been deleted and another posted twice.**

 **This is quite embarrassing and not helpful for inviting people to read A Gift from the Past. Today 7/10/18, I made the appropriate corrections. If you have been following my story and became confused – I sincerely apologize and hope that you will either continue reading or, if you feel up to it, start over again.**

 **If you are new to the story, thank you for reading and reviewing.**


	14. Alterations

ALTERATIONS

The illumination from the porcelain lamp on the nightstand is shaded by the canopy of four-poster, leaving Erik's and Christine's faces in shadow. Hers is tucked into the crook of his neck, their bodies entwined giving the illusion of one being. With the exception of the Burgundy smoking jacket, Erik having taken the time to hang it in Christine's armoire, their clothing is scattered on the floor and at the foot of the bed.

"Do you think there will be a time when we can restrain our passion to deal with our clothes in a more responsible way," Erik murmurs into her mussed hair – the white satin ribbon long since untied and tossed aside.

"You did hang up your jacket," she replies.

"Yes, I did, it was newly made and quite costly."

"Today was a surprise for me."

"What part – never mind – I know what part," he sighs. "Money is always a somewhat obscene topic of conversation."

"It's so wonderful that Madame and Meg and Nadir will be taken care of."

"And you, my dear, most especially you," he kisses her forehead. "My plans were a work in progress that will now be completed. Legal issues are such a trial, but necessary to protect all concerned. I have never had to consider anyone other than myself."

"You do not have to give me anything, you know," she says.

"I owe you my life, whatever money or property or possessions I give you are worth that much and more," he says. "If you left me the moment after the papers are put in order, it would still be worth the time we have spent together – even if only these past moments."

"Oh, Erik, you exaggerate."

"I love you, Christine. The thought that you love me is most remarkable. It is not just my face – odd as it may seem – I am beginning to believe what you and Nadir have been telling me about facial features being forgettable when you are familiar with someone. Yet, my past holds so many horrors that shock even me. One thing about my accepting that I am a part of the human race, is shame about the time when I was devoid of that humanity."

"Guilt serves no one, Erik. It is a false emotion and just an excuse for not moving on."

"Is that so?"

"Yes, that is so," she retorts. "Pappa taught me that. Did you feel guilty all those years ago, when you were committing those heinous acts?

"Only at the end. The earlier acts are still with me – they haunt my dreams. When you throw your lot in with the devil, he does not fail to exact payment."

"Given the opportunity, would you do the same things – at the end, I mean, knowing what you know now?"

"Possibly, because I was afraid for my own life."

"So why feel guilty? You cannot change the past. You can only atone. It seems to me that this is what you are doing or attempting to do."

"When did you become so wise?" He draws her closer to him.

"You have to forgive yourself, Erik," she pulls back, raising herself on her elbow. "I have forgiven you." She strokes his face, running the back of her hand over the ruined part of his face, then bends over to kiss his lips. First gently, then pressing her tongue into his mouth, inviting his tongue into hers.

Erik could easily kiss her like this for the rest of his life. He would be happy to just have the privilege of looking at her – being able to touch her at all, much less with such intimacy, is a miracle. The perfection of their connection is something he could never have dreamed. Perhaps he has atoned, or has at least left the worst behind. His fingers perform a glissando from her shoulder over her exposed breasts that graze his chest, past the dip of her waist that accentuates her lush hips to her sacred mound. He cannot get enough of her – must translate her true beauty – not just his fantasies about her – into music. Now is the time to relish the peace, gentleness… love. The past will catch up eventually, of that he has no doubt, but not now. Not now.

* * *

"What exactly happened between you and M. Robert?" Adele inquires of Meg, following her into the sitting room of their flat.

"Would you like to be alone to discuss this?" Nadir asks as he closes the door behind him.

"No. Stay. I need you to hear what she says," Adele replies.

Nadir takes a seat at the table, folding his hands in his lap and waits for the girl's response.

"Maman, he did nothing." Hunched over as if dodging a blow, Meg continues the trek to her bedroom.

"Why are you walking that way? Where is your posture? Where is my Meg?" Adele takes her daughter by the arm and turns her around. "Look at me," she commands, "I do not believe he did nothing."

Tears flood Meg's blue eyes, her arms hang lifeless from slumped shoulders. "He pulled on my hair to bring me close to him," Meg admits. "Some other dancers came along so he let me go…but he-he whispered in my ear." Pulling away from her mother's grasp, she sinks to the floor, completely spent. "That is all. I swear."

"Nothing more?" Adele presses. "Monique told me that the reason she went with him at all was because he raped her – felt she had no choice but to go with him after that. He turned her out because she believed she was with child. When she told him, he beat her – punched her in the belly. She began bleeding and thought she had miscarried. It turned out to be her cycle – thank God."

"Oh, Maman, I did not know."

"Meg, what did he whisper?" Nadir asks, his voice gentle.

Staring at the floor, Meg mutters, "He said he would buy me pretty things. He said that women liked pretty things. I told him I was a girl, not a woman. He said that was good – he could teach me." Sobs wrack her body. "I felt so dirty."

Adele kneels down to sit next to the girl sheltering her, holding her head to her breast, rocking her. She looks up at Nadir. "I am sorry. I did not realize that our conversation would turn in this direction."

"Not at all, this is a real issue that must be dealt with," he responds. "Is Monique all right? Does she wish to press charges?"

Adele snorts. "As if the police would act to protect a ballet rat from a wealthy man. She is recovering with her friends. The beating was mild, as far as beatings go. We are all grateful that there was no baby."

"Let us be grateful that our Meg was not hurt. Her safety is first and foremost," he declares. "What do you wish for me to do?" Nadir asks.

"Protect Meg. Would that be possible? Be with her when I cannot be?"

"Maman! No. I do not want a bodyguard," Meg complains, sitting back on her haunches. "And I do not believe M. Khan wants to spend his time following me around."

Adele resettles herself as well, giving Meg some space, but keeping a hand on the girl's knee.

"Now, wait a moment, Meg," Nadir interjects, "this might not have to be a long term thing. If this Robert is guilty of any crime, he would likely show himself before too long."

"Meg, I am not willing to take a chance on your being attacked."

"Nor am I," Nadir says. "Unlike some people, I do not believe in using vulnerable women as bait."

"Do you think Erik would want to be involved?" Adele asks.

"No doubt," Nadir answers. "He has the full knowledge of the traps and passages at the Opera House. He could educate me and we would be able to look out for all the girls." His face brightens. "You have given me an idea."

"What?" Both Adele and Meg ask.

"I need to discuss this with Erik, but I think we could most definitely address this issue…and others…" His voice drifts off.

"So it would not be just me?" Meg's voice is hopeful.

"No. Robert sounds like a predator. If he cannot get close to you, he will attempt to press himself upon another girl. Rapists tend not to have scruples – he likely saw you as weak and vulnerable."

"Erik is…um…pre-occupied right now," Adele opines.

"Yes, but Christine will be singing at the Opera House. It would finally give him a legitimate reason to be lurking about."

"I did forget to tell you something..." Meg says, refusing to meet his eyes.

What?"

"More?"

"He mentioned Christine –he called her the little songbird." Slumping down again, she hugs herself, eyes scrunched shut.

Adele sighs and gives Meg's leg a squeeze. "Stop fretting. It is understandable that you would forget some things"

"Erik would kill him if he knew. He was ready to pounce when he heard about Meg."

"If Christine is married, he likely will not bother her. He stays away from the girls he knows are involved with someone – as you said, he looks for the vulnerable girls," Adele advises. "When Christine started wearing a ring, he no longer asked for her."

"He asked for Christine directly?" Nadir queries – his tone grim.

"Yes, right after she sang that first time," Adele tells him. "That is one reason I was so pleased when the Vicomte seemed interested in her."

"I do not have anyone," Meg whispers, cuddling closer to her mother again.

"You have me," says Nadir, his tone sympathetic. "Not as patron." He glances at Adele. "But as a protector."

"Did not Phillippe de Chagny offer help?"

"My impression was that he felt obligated to help Erik in some way. Perhaps my idea will appeal to both of them. As far as M. Robert, Phillippe is in a better position to know other patrons who might not be entirely righteous men."

"What idea? This is the second time you mentioned it," Adele inquires.

"In time. In time. As I said, I must speak to Erik first." He gives her his best smile.

"Very well." Adele gives up the argument and struggles to her feet.

"M. Robert mocked the Chagnys. Called them pretty boys," Meg tells Nadir, her voice regaining some strength.

"That might be useful."

"In the meantime, I need to speak with the managers about Christine." Adele paces the floor, pounding her stick as she walks.

"Would it not be better if Erik spoke to them?" asks Nadir.

"He would likely terrify them."

"Not if he appears as Erik Saint-Rien, Christine's betrothed from Rouen who had a terrible accident when he was a young man that ruined half of his face."

"Would that not be a bit obvious?"

"From what you said, they were willing to tell the story that Erik was the understudy and moved to – was it Italy or Belgium?" Nadir laughs. "They do not appear to be the most intelligent of men."

"Maman, will Christine able to sing? I mean, I know she can sing, but her foot?"

"Will Erik still want her to perform Don Juan Triumphant?" Nadir adds. "He most definitely needs to meet with them."

Adele sighs, "So many questions. Do you want to speak with Erik, or should I?" She asks.

"We are meeting tomorrow. He wants me to accompany him to the lawyer and the mairie. He has ventured out during the day on occasion – but said he would appreciate the companionship since he has a number of things to deal with. We can join you after our other meetings."

"Meg, perhaps it would be best for you to stay home tomorrow." Holding her hand out to Meg, helping her to her feet. "I will go to the Opera House for rehearsal and will await you and Erik."

"I am sorry, Maman."

"Why? You have done nothing wrong." She brushes Meg's hair away from her face, then cups the girl's tear-stained cheeks in her hands. "You-have-done-nothing-wrong. Understood?"

"This is about him and others like him who might show up in the future, Meg," Nadir interjects. "You have done us and all the other girls a great service."

"Are you certain?" Meg asks, looking up at him from the protection of her mother's arms.

"Absolutely."

* * *

"Mam'selle," Nadir bows slightly as he greets Christine.

"M. Khan."

The dining room table has been overtaken by yards of white silk and lace, Christine wields a long pair of scissors, taking the luxurious fabric to task in ways that make no sense to him, but then sewing is not one of his skills. The unruly curls have been pulled into a pile on top of her head, kept in place by a number of combs and hairpins – this does not prevent several odd strands from falling onto her face. Futile attempts to blow them away is just that – futile. She sighs as she pulls a hairpin from one set of curls, to tuck in some of the strays.

"The wedding gown?" he queries.

"Yes," she replies, "I intend to wear it for our vows. It suffered some damage and got a bit dirty, so needs mending and cleaning, but I also want to make it more appropriate for a civil ceremony."

"You appear quite confident."

"My mother taught me to sew. I make many of my own clothes – have done for some time – especially when I was a girl and still growing. Pappa's, too. We never had much money. You could buy cast offs or churches would often have clothing for the poor or we found all sorts of usable items in the trash. Did you know that the wealthy throw their clothes away rather than clean them? Sometimes all a dress or jacket or pair of trousers needed was a good scrubbing."

"Is this what you wanted, my dear?" Erik asks as he enters from the kitchen carrying a lacquered sewing box with chinoiserie embellishments. He sets it on the corner of the table next to her along with a lacquered tin.

She opens the casket and finds an array of sewing tools she never imagined existed, the smaller receptacle holds several spools of thread. "This is wonderful – like Christmas," she exclaims, "my poor kit," indicating a small wooden box, "just has these scissors and some needles and pins."

"Are you certain you want to do this? We could have it altered to your desires…or buy a new gown."

Nadir shakes his head vigorously at Erik. "It would seem that the little Mam'selle has this under control," he says.

Erik's brow furrows.

Christine beams at both of them. "Yes, I do."

"Very well," Erik concedes. "I shan't argue with you."

"Good idea," states Nadir.

"Excuse me…" Erik growls.

"Stop your bickering. Be off and leave me to my work," Christine intercedes.

Diverting his attention back to Christine, Erik asks, "Do you need anything else before we go?"

"My ankle is feeling much better and I have this," she says, indicating the borrowed cane at her side. "So, a kiss will do nicely for me."

Erik turns to Nadir and clears his throat.

Nadir rolls his eyes. "All right, all right," he chuckles, leaving the room.

"That was unnecessary," Christine opines.

"This is precious and ours," he says, bending down to kiss her.

"Come home soon."

"Home," he sighs. "Yes, soon."

"Shoo," she laughs.

* * *

"What was all that head shaking about? She does not have to mend her clothing. And that business about my not arguing…" Erik starts in on Nadir once they are out of Christine's earshot.

"She just finished telling me how she makes her own clothes…and made some of her father's from cast offs," Nadir replies. "She is very proud of her skill. I saved you from a very large sinkhole."

"I did not know," Erik admits.

"There is so much you do not know. Give yourself some time," Nadir advises. "Mitra was such an incredible woman," he recalls. "I learned that at times women need to be protected – but the lioness still controls the pride. Christine did a fair job of protecting herself against the boy and it appears that she can sew as well. Tread lightly or she will rip your heart out."

They reach the end of the tunnel and exit to the street. Foot traffic is heavy, despite the beauty of the day, the smell of the city cannot be avoided. Both men remove handkerchiefs from their pockets and cover their noses.

"I fear that has already happened. However, I will keep that in mind then next time I try to be overprotective," Erik comments, "she is most definitely the one in charge.

"Indeed. Your Christine is a pure soul, childlike in many ways, but not a child. She is made of stern stuff."

Erik scans the street. During the occasional times he ventures out during the day, the difference in the appearance of things in daylight always surprises him. The darkness hides so much – the filth, certainly, but the color and beauty of the sky and grass and the overall composition of people and buildings and nature as well.

"This really is quite an attractive street," he comments.

"I suppose." Nadir is puzzled. "It looks much like other streets to me."

"But I tend to always see it at night. This is very different from my usual view."

"You truly are in love, my friend, you should write a song about it." Nadir slaps him on the back, chuckling. "Where to first?" he inquires.

"The lawyer."

"Shall we hail a carriage?"

Erik stops for a moment, looks up and down the boulevard, considering his options.

"Well?"

"He is not far from here," Erik mulls.

"Do you wish to walk? Despite the usual odors, it is a lovely spring day."

Erik's hand shifts from his nose to his mask. "No. Let us take a carriage."

"Not ready yet?"

"Not with the sun so high, perhaps on our return" Erik says.

"Sometimes I wonder if you took those vampire stories you heard while in the Asias seriously."

"Part of my act with Javert had me in a coffin. I found myself comfortable with the limitations. It was a way to be hugged, having the soft cushioned fabric surrounding me as I slept, strange as that may sound. The confinement also helped when I had my nightmares – having the protection of such a close space when sleeping prevented me from falling out of bed on a number of occasions." He laughs, then steals a look at Nadir from the corner of his eye. "During my later performances as I traveled, I would suggest I _was_ a vampire – it added to the mystique, that is, until an old man decided to put a stake into my heart one night as I slept."

"That actually happened?" Nadir steps back.

"Would I jest about such a thing?"

"No. Not you." Nadir's tone is filled with sarcasm. "So did it happen?"

"Unfortunately for the fool who attempted to take my life, it did. I took his instead," Erik says coolly. "That does count as self-defense, does it not?"

"Yes," Nadir agrees. "However, it always strikes me how dispassionate you can be when speaking about a threat on your life or someone's death."

"Would you prefer I weep?"

"No, of course not."

"Then what? I was taught from the time I was a child that I was not worthy of life – why should I respect the life of someone else."

"That is not who you are and you know it."

"No. It is not – it never was. I learned that too late to prevent many of my actions. It might have been better for all concerned had I truly been a vampire." His laughter is grim.

"I'm sorry I brought all this up," Nadir says.

"It was I who referred to the sunlight," he says. After a beat, he continues: "I am not worthy of her, Nadir."

"Let her be the judge of that. She already knows much about your life and it has not frightened her away. If anything your past seems to draw her closer to you. You are more like her father than you think. It is not your age either. The three of you are natural vagabonds – living your life on the road. Making money from your music. The music itself. Never knowing what the next day would bring. Your experiences were harsher, but the basic elements were the same."

A carriage drives toward them and they flag him to stop. Erik gives the driver their destination and hurries into the cab. Nadir follows and closes the door after them. Erik pulls down the shade next to him, only then relaxing into the seat.

"Forgive me for being nosy," Nadir ventures.

"You cannot help yourself. Policing was actually quite an appropriate vocation for you." An open hand is extended giving permission for Nadir to continue.

"Are you using protection?" Nadir blurts out.

"Besides the lasso?" Erik is puzzled by the question.

"No, not the lasso – with Christine?"

"What?" Erik exclaims. Realization dawns on his face. "Oh."

"I will take that as a no," Nadir replies. "For all the preparations you made for this adventure, did you not consider you might actually succeed and would need to take precautions?"

"Actually, I did," Erik huffs, crossing his legs and attempting to look out the shaded window.

"But?"

"But what?" He glares at Nadir.

"But you failed to apply those precautions, correct?"

Erik sighs.

"Well, the young lady is wise. I suspect she may have more common sense than you, although I am not certain what women actually do." Nadir shifts his body in his seat, a smirk forming on his full lips. "Did you follow my advice?"

"Advice? What advi…?" The side of his face that is visible turns bright pink. "Yes," he chuffs, "I need all the forgiveness I can get." He re-crosses his legs. "Are you quite through?"

Nadir throws back his head and laughs.

Erik's eyes grow intense, his fingers play a silent melody on his pursed lips. "It does concern me – the idea of a child."

"Yes, my friend, I know your fears, particularly with your family history." Nadir's laughter fades.

The carriage stops.

"We have arrived, messieurs," the driver calls down to them.

They exit the carriage, stepping onto a sidewalk crowded with men in day suits, a variety of hats from top hats to bowlers on display. Erik's fedora and Nadir's astrakhan are just two of many. Once assured that there are no ladies with them to assess, the friends are ignored by the businessmen going about their day.

"Should I wait?"

"Merci, no, we shall be awhile," Nadir says. He hands the driver the fare and a generous tip due to the short trip.

"Merci beaucoup, monsieur," the driver says, appreciative of the gratuity.

Erik pulls out some franc notes and tries to give them to the daroga.

Nadir waves him off. "I am a wealthy man now, thanks to you – or will be shortly."

"True, enough."

Erik opens the heavy wood door of the stone-faced office building, allowing Nadir to pass in front of him.

"I should change the will."

"Wait until to you speak with Christine. Discuss the issues and then do what you _both_ decide," Nadir advises. "You cannot continue to make all these decisions on your own _and_ you may be putting the buggy before the baby."

* * *

Messieurs Moncharmin and Richard pace the hallway outside of Adele's office, awaiting her arrival. Two days without contact after the to-do with the Chagnys and the reappearance of the Opera Ghost had them on tenterhooks. They would likely never know what had happened on the rooftop or why the Opera Ghost was carrying Mlle. Daae or why the Comte de Chagny summoned Mme. Giry and M. Khan from their office, still, they had an Opera House to run and Mme. Giry seemed to be at the center of all the strange business that was going on.

"How shall we present this to her?" Armand asks, wiping his brow with a handkerchief.

Adele clears her throat, startling them. "Messieurs?" Taking her key out, she opens the door to her office. "May I invite you in?"

Regaining their composure, they follow her into the elegant room – decidedly more feminine than their large office down the hall.

"Please sit down," she indicates the chaise longue. "What do you wish to present to me?"

"M. Georges Robert has brought it to our attention that you have been keeping him from some of the ballet girls." Armand blurts out.

"Nice bit of diplomacy," Firmin snipes to himself.

"Is that so?" Adele replies. "Did he also tell you that he beat Monique duSable in an attempt to abort her baby?"

The managers' faces fall, they exchange a look of chagrin.

"The ballet girls that I have _kept_ from him are my daughter and Christine Daae, who is betrothed."

"Ms. Daae is betrothed? When did this come about? Is it with the Vicomte?" Armand solemn face takes on a more hopeful look.

Firmin nods, a hesitant smile on his lips.

"No, it is not the Vicomte. They were simply old friends – reunited when he became a patron of the Opera."

"Then, who?" they ask in unison, brows furrowed in concern at what the answer might be.

Adele smiles.

Their fears are realized. "No. It cannot be."

"Her fiance's name is Erik Saint-Rien, an architect and composer – quite a gifted man. He will be here shortly with my friend – you remember Daroga Khan – to discuss Christine's contract."

"The Opera Ghost?" Armand and Firmin clutch one another's hands.

"She will be with him?"

"No, she suffered an accident after our meeting the other day – a sprained ankle. M. Saint-Rien will explain it all to you."

"Don Juan Triumphant?"

"That, too," Adele assures them. "Now about M. Robert. I have no intention of allowing him near my daughter _or_ any of the other girls. Monique might have died."

"He is one of our most generous patrons…"

"He is a criminal."

"What would you have us do?"

"I suggest you take that up with M. Saint-Rien and Daroga Khan as well. They may have some ideas on how you might reassess how the ballet girls meet with potential suitors. We all understand that this practice will not disappear, but the girls should be protected from known violent men."

"Oh, dear," Armand frets.

"This is too much, too much," Firmin says.

"It will all be well," Adele assures them. "Be grateful that there are some men in the world that actually care for the girls. They might actually dance longer – with the ballet being the better for it."

They rise from the chaise and start for the door. "When will they be here?"

"I am not certain, they had other appointments," she replies. "I will bring them to your office when they arrive."

Armand retrieves the handkerchief from his pocket and wipes his forehead again. Firmin closes the door behind them.

"What are we to do? The Opera Ghost…" Armand whispers.

"Hear what he has to say, I suppose. We have no choice."

* * *

A soft knock sounds on her door.

"Enter," Adele calls out.

A presence fills the doorway – as tall as Erik, but with the bulk of a wrestler. His tweed waistcoat is stretched tight against the width of his chest, a dark brown wool bowler tipped rakishly on his head. But for his turned down mouth and bloodshot eyes, his appearance is almost jovial.

"Monsieur Robert?" Adele addresses him, attempting to quell a heart that has doubled its beat. The smell of liquor takes her aback.

"I understand that you have decided that I am not to be allowed to visit with the rats any longer," he growls.

Maneuvering to a stance behind her desk, putting it between them, she pulls herself to full height, tightening the grip on her stick. "That is so."

"Do you know who I am?" he demands. "I own the one of the largest conglomerates of breweries in this country."

"Is that so, monsieur? That is quite an admirable accomplishment."

"I could buy and sell this place."

"Indeed." Her eyes flit around the room, seeking a way to escape. But she is already aware that she is cornered – if not by the room, but by his sheer size and her own infirmity.

"I wish to be acquainted with Marguerite, the petite blonde dancer."

"I must refuse," Adele states. "Marguerite is my daughter and has no need of a patron."

He considers her words, his eyes close to mere slits. "Then, I would like to meet with the little songbird – Christine."

Erik and Nadir come up behind Robert from the hallway.

Adele visibly relaxes, a move that has Robert turn around.

"I am afraid that Mlle. Daae is betrothed to me." Erik's eyes and voice are icy.

"You?" Robert laughs. "A masked man – what ugliness are you hiding? Face blown up in the Prussian fracas?" He reaches towards the mask.

Erik steps back, his hand reaching into his pocket.

Nadir steps between them, pushing Erik behind him.

"Enough, gentlemen, enough," Nadir cajoles. "It would seem, M. Robert, that your romantic notions will not be fulfilled today."

Robert takes each of them in, nods, then turns to the door. "I will take this up with the managers. You have not seen the last of me."

Adele rushes to Nadir as quickly as she can get around the desk. "I was terrified. Thank God you came."

He takes her in his arms and pulls her to his chest. "He is a classic bully. The moment a man – two men arrived, he bolted."

"I must be losing my touch," Erik muses. "I find it fascinating that he thought he could bully me as well because of the mask. I should have let him remove it. He would have shat his fancy pants."

"You were so brave, Nadir," Adele says, brushing her hand against his cheek.

Erik rolls his eyes at Nadir, who shrugs and smiles.

"How did this come to happen?" Nadir inquires.

"I told the managers about him – he must have gone there first and frightened the two toads."

"Then it is best we frighten them even more," smirks Erik. "What do you think, my friends?"

"At this moment, nothing would please me more," Adele states. "Those fools could have caused me great harm."

She leads them out of her office, locking the door behind them and marches to the managers' office.

* * *

After one sharp knock, Adele pushes the door open to confront Armand and Firmin. "You sent that beast to my office – what did you think he was going to do? Offer me tea?" She growls, pounding her stick on the floor.

The managers jump to their feet, standing at attention next to the partners' desk, pressing against the polished wood surface to control their shaking bodies.

Nadir and Erik follow her in, closing the door behind them, their faces deadpan.

"Mme. Giry," Armand gulps. "Messieurs Khan and…Saint-Rien, is it?

"Yes. _It_ is," Erik replies, the golden eyes laughing.

"He assured us that he only wanted to talk to you," Firmin advises her.

"That man talks with his fists," she counters. "Thankfully these kind gentlemen appeared at my door before he had the chance for too much conversation."

"He must be dealt with," Nadir comments. "I am a private investigator, so all will be done legally and without publicity. My associate, M. Saint-Rien, and I will assess the situation and create a security plan for the ballet girls and present it to you. There is no excuse for what happened to Mlle. DuSable."

The managers are cowed. They bob their heads vigorously.

"Sit down," Erik commands. "We are not here to assault you, but to discuss business. The issue with M. Robert will be attended to as M. Khan has indicated. May we?" He waves his hand to indicate the sofa and chairs for visitors.

"Of course." Armand finds his voice. "Please make yourselves comfortable. Can I offer refreshment?"

Firmin opens the doors to the bookcase, revealing a tray set up with a crystal decanter of brandy and aperitif glasses. Another tray holds a teapot covered in a cozy with tea cups and service. With a wave of his hand he asks which the trio would prefer.

"Thank you, no. We shan't be long." Erik answers for all of them.

Firmin returns to his seat at the desk.

"So," Erik begins, "I believe the question about the future of Don Juan Triumphant is pressing on your minds, is this so?"

The managers nod.

"It is my understanding that the composer no longer wishes this work to be performed and would like the return of all copies of the score."

A sharp intake of breath is heard from both Armand and Firmin. They look to Adele. "But we thought that…"

"Yes, well, as with much in life – things change." A tone of regret softens Erik's sarcastic tone. "The composer understands that a great deal of money has been expended on the production and he wishes to reimburse you, particularly in these difficult financial times." He hands Armand a large envelope. "Within there is a certificate of credit for 200,000 francs. I believe this should cover the monies already expended and some of the future losses. I expect the salaries for all the artists and crew be paid from this sum.

"M. Saint-Rein, this is wonderful – much more than we could really expect," Armand exclaims. Firmin shushes him.

"I will assume the role of Artistic Director. Ms. Daae will be Prima Donna for any roles she chooses to sing. Madame Giry will be my assistant, handling the day-to-day affairs and will be our liaison. She will also require an assistant – of her own choosing. Marguerite Giry will understudy Sorelli and will be her alternate until such time as Sorelli wishes to retire or a role presents itself where Marguerite would be more suitable as Prima. All the contracts are contained within this envelope."

Armand clears his throat, his mouth opens, but Erik cuts him off before he can speak.

"You will continue as the managers. I have no desire to disrupt the business end of the Opera. I simply wish to see the artistic elements better realized," Erik stands up. "I believe that we are finished here. Adele, Nadir – let us leave these gentlemen to peruse the documents. We will be in touch.

"Oh, yes, I suggest reviving Hannibal for the time being, until a new Opera can be put into production. I think Norma might be a good choice and will confirm that within the week. I had considered offering Il Muto, since that was the most recent venture, but people might feel…uncomfortable."

"Of course, Monsieur, whatever you say. We shall await word from you."

"Good," Erik responds. He turns to Adele and Nadir, "Shall we go?" The trio leave the managers' office, breaking into raucous laughter as Erik closes the door behind them.

"You do love drama," Nadir comments.

"I believe they are so confused they are not certain if they should be happy, sad or merely frightened. I shall miss our pranks, Adele."

"As shall I," Adele says. "Thank you for the promotion, Erik." Turning to Nadir, she says, "Thank you for rescuing me from M. Robert."

"Thank you, my love, for being such a fierce and noble woman. I suspect you could have bested him had we not appeared."

Adele tips her head suggesting that he may be correct.

"My love?" teases Erik.

"Do you have a problem with that?" Adele asks, taking Nadir's arm.

"Not at all, I am becoming rather fond of this loving business," he responds. "Speaking of which, I had best be getting home to my love before she remakes the entire house. Now that I am aware of her sewing skills I best hide all my black clothing – she favors colors."

* * *

Erik enters the sitting room carrying a small dish to find Christine asleep on the settee. The floor of dining area is covered with white silk reminiscent of the first snowfall of winter. His eyes are drawn to the dress lying on the table that he had created for her – now altered to remove much of the fullness, accentuating all the embellishments that he had integrated into the design – giving them even more drama. Tiny pearls embedded in lace trimmings with hints of crystals positioned to capture the light. She has not finished, but what he sees is breathtaking.

Kneeling on the floor next to her, he takes her hand and kisses it.

"Hello, my love." Keeping her eyes closed, she brings his hand to her lips and returns the kiss.

"You are quite talented, my dear. Not only can you sing like an angel, you are a gifted couturier. The gown is stunning – much better than before."

"It is not completed." She yawns, finally allowing her lids to open, green eyes sparkling. "I only pinned it together because I wanted your approval before doing any sewing."

"You have it," he says. "I was concerned when I became aware of your skills that I would find myself in plaids and tweeds – the thought horrified me. Now, however, I suspect that whatever you take on with my wardrobe, I shall be quite pleased with the outcome."

Christine laughs and caresses his cheek. "Did your meetings go well?"

"Quite. I will tell you all about them – including the news that Nadir and I are going into business together."

"Truly?"

"Yes. We are going to form a security business, but with a twist. In addition to guards, we will install alarms systems in homes similar to what I have here. Architectural adjustments to residences to provide safe spaces."

"That is wonderful," she exclaims. "Tell me more."

"After you sample what I purchased for our dinner." He picks up a ripe strawberry from the dish and holds it to her full lips to take a bite. "The green grocer had these and I purchased some fresh baguettes along with the gruyere you favor, truffles and some other foodstuffs I thought you might enjoy. Oh, _and_ , Belgian chocolate for dessert with the berries."

"You went shopping?" She covers her mouth, swallowing the piece of fruit.

"Yes, I did." He has amazed himself. "Well, Nadir was with me…"

"Help me up," she grips his arm, pulling herself to a sitting position. "I am anxious to sample your other purchases. This is delicious." Observing the silk remnants, she sighs, "We shall have to eat our dinner here on the coffee table. I am sorry for the mess."

"Never say you are sorry, my love." He scoops her into his arms and carries her to the kitchen. "Do you like herring?

"What a question – herring is the life blood of Swedes."

"It is dried, I could not find pickled…"

"Strawberries, chocolate and herring – what more could I ask for?"

"Kisses, I hope."


	15. Commitments

COMMITMENTS

Finished with his task of folding the remnants of white silk that he gathered from the floor, the detritus from Christine's remodeling of the wedding gown he bought for her, Erik stacks them on the dining room table, next to the stack of lace. Eyes focused on Christine, who sits on the sofa stitching the skirt of her wedding gown, he begins pacing back and forth. "Um..."

"Um?" Christine looks up from her work. "Um, what?"

"Um…"

"Yes, you said that," A laugh escapes despite the serious look on Erik's face. _Oh, to be able to get into that convoluted mind of yours. Such a tortured soul, still so much a child. Still so frightened of being hurt. A fire burns inside her at the hateful woman who gave him birth and set about to destroy his soul with her vain stupidity._

"What?" Erik's eyes grow wide at the fierce look that replaces her gentle teasing response to his inability to form a question. "I am sorry. Have I angered you?"

"No. No, you sweet man," she assures him, "my thoughts just veered off to a bad place for a moment." Holding out her hand, she encourages him to sit next to her.

Erik sits on the edge of the settee, twisting his hands, unable to be still.

After knotting the thread, she cuts it from the garment, then places the needle in a pincushion and places it, the scissors and her thimble in the sewing casket. Gathering the gown up, she places it on the coffee table the folds her hands on her lap. "Now: 'Um,' what? What do you want to ask that has you so tongue-tied and so agitated?"

"It is rather intimate," he replies. Color rises on his cheeks.

"My darling man, we have been nothing _but i_ ntimate these past days. You wrote a song about intimacy that we sang in public with accompanying touching," she chuckles. "Tell me what concerns you."

Taking her hand in both of his – rubbing his thumb across her soft, smooth skin, he says, "I am not adept at conversation…" He holds a hand up to stop any retort. "My way of relating has either been through actions or my music. Although I find I have been talking quite a bit lately."

"Go on."

"Um."

"Erik!"

"Nadir asked me if I was using protection with you." The words erupt from his mouth.

"Did he?" Christine exclaims. "That was bold. What did you say?"

"Not much."

"Not much protection or you did not say much?"

"Both." He sneaks a look at her from the corner of his eye.

A snort erupts from her nose. Her hand reaches up to cover her face. "I am sorry, I have not done that in years. Pappa would make me laugh so hard, I could not help myself," she explains. "Oh, dear." Elbow on her knee, she rests her chin on her hand, cocking her head to look up at him.

"He suggested that my well laid plans did not include such preparations," he continues in a rush. "I assured him that I had indeed prepared."

"But failed to use anything?

"Yes," he responds. "He thought you might have been your usual competent self and dealt with this issue."

"That was some conversation," she asserts, leaning over to kiss him on the cheek, then resting her head on his chest. "I did consider some options I had available to me."

"So you did take care about – about not creating a child?" His relief is palpable.

"Not exactly." She snuggles closer to him. "The girls talked about sponges, but that would have had a string exposed in my, uh, private area that I was concerned would irritate you. I do have some of those," she admits. "There was also the option of a pessary…a diaphragm, but I had not yet gone to a doctor to be measured. There were other suggestions, none of which was very appealing. Sticking all sorts of mixtures up…" She shivers at the recollection of the girls' chatter. "All of this happened so quickly."

He pulls away from her, holding his head in his hands, elbows pressed into his knees. "Oh, god, I'm so sorry. So selfish, so stupid."

Christine wraps her arms around his back, her head resting on his shoulder. "If you recall, I initiated our intimacy that first time, and took you somewhat by surprise."

"I could have stopped and taken care of the protection," he insists.

"As if I was going to let you leave my bed," she teases.

"Well, then, after – the other times."

"I am not entirely certain that using protection _the other times_ during these past few days would make any difference." Her tone matter-of-fact.

"Do you think you are with child?" Erik stares at her, eyes wide with fear.

"I do not know," she admits. "Truthfully, though, I want to have your baby. Besides what we already have, nothing could make me happier."

He lurches from the couch and turns to her. "You want to risk this for your child?" He thrusts his face directly into hers.

She does not flinch. "Our child, Erik. _Our_ child – born of _our_ love," she says gently, her eyes soft. "I knew what might happen. That is what is supposed to happen when people love each other."

"But, what if the child is…deformed? I do not know how I could bear the guilt."

"What did we say about guilt? Would you rather I had left you for _the boy_ , as you call him? That these past days never happened?"

"No."

"Do you regret our lovemaking – the pleasure we bring one another?'

"No."

"Are you happy?"

"Yes. I never thought I could have such happiness."

"If there is a child, and that is not a given at this point, you will be even happier. That is my promise to you."

"Should we use the condoms I purchased? As a precaution? To prevent the possibility of a child – presuming that you are not already pregnant?"

"If you wish, but I would prefer not," she insists. "I am serious. I want your child…children, however many we are blessed to parent, if that is what is meant to be. You brought me such love. My joy at being with you is beyond anything I could have ever hoped for. You think you are the lucky one, but you gave me your music so that now I have a real voice; your home, so now I have a real home. You are my life, Erik."

"But, what if…I could not bear for any child to live as I have because of this," he points to his face.

"Your… _our_ child will be cherished and adored." She reaches for his hand, drawing him back to the settee next to her. "When you thought I was cross with you earlier? I was thinking about your mother and how she had hurt you. How she damaged your soul. We would never let that happen to our son or daughter."

Erik sighs and draws Christine into his arms. "I do not believe I have ever been more terrified in my life," he whispers in her ear.

"Do you wish to sleep on it?

"As if I can sleep as it is." His laugh is rueful. "I must take responsibility for knowing what might happen and proceeding anyway. I made a choice – as did you. You, at least, have been more honest about it. So it would seem we both want a child of our love."

"Can you be happy about this?" Christine takes his chin in her hand and turns his head to face her. "We can use protection until we are certain one way or another. While my cycle is haphazard, we would likely know within a month's time. Would you want to do that?"

"Kiss me?"

"Of course, you do not have to ask." They lean into to one another, pressing their lips together in a connection that reaches beyond passion. Even more than the kisses they shared in the music room, this kiss represents life and death and will determine their future. Christine holds her left hand against his deformity – Erik covers that hand with his.

As they break away from one another, Erik takes her hands in his and places them on her belly. Tears flood his eyes, breathing from the depths of his heart, he shakes his head.

"No protection?" Christine asks.

"No protection."

* * *

Christine lies across Erik's chest, facing him, holding his head, she cards his meager hair with her fingers. She plies him with tiny kisses. "I." Kiss. "need." Kiss. "to." Kiss. "do." Kiss. "something." Kiss. "with." Kiss. "your." Kiss. "hair." Kiss.

"I hope our child is blessed with your curls," Erik grunts. He takes _her_ face in _his_ hands and kisses her forehead, nose and mouth – the last kiss lingering a bit before he rolls her onto her back to kiss her neck, each breast and stomach before getting out of bed to pick up his drawers and put them on.

"Where are you going?"

"To write." He pulls on the rest of his clothing. "There is a song in my head and I must put pen to paper."

"May I join you?"

He ponders the thought for a moment _, this is new._ He laughs to himself. _It is all new._ "Yes, please, many of the notes are yours in any event."

"How do you mean?" She asks, pulling on her duster and slippers.

"You sing in your sleep – did you know that?" He asks.

"I do?" She blushes. "Do I talk as well?"

"No, at least not that I have heard – just bits of melody. I have been working with your little song fragments."

"Oh, my."

"Here, let me help you to the bathroom. How is your pain?"

"Much better, my shoulder hardly bothers me at all and the ankle is much improved."

"Good. I am afraid that with the possibility of a baby, you should not have the willow tincture anymore – we do not want to take any chances – especially with my genetics already an issue. Something I should have considered sooner."

"No guilt," she scolds him. "Last night was a new beginning – no regrets, no looking back on what we should have done."

"When you are ready, call me and we will work on our other wedding project."

"The song?"

"Yes, _our_ song."

* * *

Two carriages stop in front of the mairie. Erik, Darius and Adele exit the first carriage. The men are garbed formal evening wear – tails, waistcoats - Darius in a traditional top hat, Erik in his usual fedora. Christine suggested the Faust hat, but Erik brushed that idea off _. "You are the star of the day, my dear. We shall leave the feathers for another time, if ever."_ Their cravats are of white silk, with just a touch of the lace embellishments studded with tiny pearls and crystals that catch the light of the sun that Christine made for each of them. A white rose boutonniere adorns each tailcoat.

Christine insisted that Adele not wear her usual black, so the dress of choice was a dove grey gabardine. Christine preferred a more elegant fabric, but Adele insisted that this dress wear well. For the occasion, Christine had made detachable cuffs and a ruffle for the collar from the remnants of her wedding dress to add some sparkle and to cover the black velvet Adele chose as part of her design.

The second carriage pulls forward – Nadir and Meg disembark.

Meg had compromised on a deep rose, heavy silk day dress instead of her favorite pale pink.

" _The rose will wear longer and be more useful. You are a young woman now, Meg."_

Blonde curls are drawn into a chignon, a bonnet of the same shade as her dress, with a simple pink ribbon as decoration sits atop her head. She, too, wears removable cuffs and neck ruffle made from the white silk.

Nadir has chosen his multi-colored silk dervish hat for the occasion, but keeps to the formal tailcoat that Erik and Darius wear, replete with the silk cravat and rose boutonniere. "Please coordinate with the driver in the forward coach to be available for us when we complete our business, within the hour, if not sooner," instructs Nadir, handing the young man a number of franc notes.

"Oui, monsieur."

* * *

"Darius, please accompany Erik to the magistrate's office." Nadir instructs the tall man. Close to his own age, Darius nevertheless maintains the appearance of youth. His curly black hair is thick and full, complementing a clear, olive complexion. Laughter fills his dark eyes as he watches Erik fidget. He never understood the affection that his master felt for the masked man until just recently.

" _He almost caused your death."_

" _Yes, I know."_

" _But you still befriend him?"_

" _There is a heart inside that wreck of a body."_

" _He kills and does not seem to care. I have seen it."_

" _Yes, I know. Except for the time he killed my son in an act of mercy. Reza was dying a slow painful death, Erik gave him the drugs needed to release him from his suffering. My son loved him – I trust my son knew more than I about the heart of a man. So I chose to love and trust him as well."_

Darius found himself growing fond of Erik, working with him in his new position as the security chief of the Opera House, his main function – to oversee of the ballet girls. It was reminiscent of his role in Persia guarding the harem. The relationship of the daroga and Mme. Giry was developing and he believed they would soon be making their own visit to the mairie or, at the very minimum living together.

Nadir asked him if he wanted to continue in his role as houseman or would he prefer working for the new security business – more specifically the job at the Opera House. He could still live with Nadir or have his own apartment. All this thanks to Erik. He had always been in service and this opportunity to be an essentially free man was something he never considered for himself – not that the daroga treated him as less than a friend and confidant. Now he had choices.

Although Erik was still stiff and, often abrupt, Darius was able to see the change in the man known as Phantom. He takes Erik's elbow and nods toward the entry to the building. "Shall we go inside to await the ladies?"

Erik turns his head away from the carriage that holds his bride to face Darius, their eyes are at the same level. "Yes, thank you, Darius."

* * *

Nadir, Adele and Meg watch the two men walk toward the building – were it not for the hats, one would not be able to tell one from the other – both tall and graceful. Darius was of a heavier build, but Erik appeared to be putting on weight. Nadir pats his own stomach and shakes his head.

"You may come out now, Mam'selle," Nadir calls into the cab.

Christine alights from the carriage. Nadir feels a catch in his throat as he takes her hand, assisting her.

Despite his protests that he had already seen the dress, Christine insisted that Erik stay with Nadir the night before. Meg kept her company and helped with her gown. Both were too excited to sleep much and amused one another with gossip about the opera.

The decision was made for her to be carried as much as possible. Erik also was concerned about her managing the tunnels. Since Erik was forbidden from seeing her, Nadir was happy to be of service. Despite his earlier viewing of the gown and riding with her just now – he is awestruck.

The women are beaming at the young bride.

Transformed by the combination of the sunlight playing off the crystals of the dress and her own glow – Christine is a vision in her recreation of the wedding dress from the night of the kidnapping. That dress was a masterpiece, it could not have been otherwise thanks to Erik's influence, but this was Christine's design. The full skirt had been reduced to the point where it was almost a sheath. For fashion's sake, she retained some fullness and reused the bustle from the original gown with a modest portion of the train. Everything had been minimized to showcase her beauty. The floral headpiece now evoked a halo with the addition of voile trimmed with lace as a veil – a shorter in front to cover her forehead with a longer piece draping her shoulders.

Each of the women wears a bouquet de corsage of white roses, adhering to the tradition of warding off evil spirits from cursing the marriage. As a gesture of humor, a large silk bow adorns the cane she still requires to help her stand and walk. It also functions as her "borrowed" element. Erik gifted her with a fine platinum chain necklace boasting a single emerald cut aquamarine that matches her eyes. This is her "blue." Her "old" ballet slippers are worn for comfort. The dress is her "new."

"May I offer my arms?" Nadir asks, holding them out to her.

"It will please me when I no longer have to be carried everywhere," Christine answers. "However, I cannot complain about the gentlemen who have so graciously performed the service."

Nadir lifts her up and the wedding party follow the path that Erik and Darius took into the mairie and the magistrate's office.

Nadir sets Christine down in the hallway, outside the office. When he opens the door, Erik and Darius turn to watch the rest of their party walk into the small office. Adele and Meg pass in front of Nadir; Erik smiles broadly at both of them. "You both look so beautiful," he remarks.

Christine takes the hand that Nadir offers her and steps in from the hallway and walks to Erik.

He extends his hand to her.

She takes it and stands by his side, pink lips parted in a brilliant smile.

"You truly are an angel – you take my breath away," he whispers.

The magistrate is briefly taken aback at the beauty of the young woman in front of him. Unconsciously, he smooths the ruff of hair that circles his otherwise bald head and straightens his bow tie. Looking back and forth between the girl and the man she is to marry, observing what he believes is scar tissue – visible despite the mask – he shakes his head. This would be one ceremony he would recall in later years. Two Persian men, an older woman (the bride's legal guardian), another beautiful young woman – and the couple. La belle et la bete?

"If you feel ready, please begin your vows – the gentlemen first."

Erik and Christine turn to face one another, her hands in his.

"I do solemnly declare, that I know not of any lawful impediment why I, Erik Saint-Rien, may not be joined in matrimony to Christine Daae. I call upon these persons, here present, to witness that I, Erik Saint-Rien, do take thee, Christine Daae to be my lawful wedded wife."

"I do solemnly declare, that I know not of any lawful impediment why I, Christine Daae, may not be joined it matrimony to Erik Saint-Rien. I call upon these persons, here present, to witness that I, Christine Daae, do take thee Erik Saint-Rien to be my lawful wedded husband."

"Are there rings to be exchanged?"

Both Erik and Christine nod.

Erik lifts an eyebrow.

"Proceed."

Erik takes a platinum ring from the pocket of his waistcoat and places it on Christine's finger, sliding it to rest against the black diamond. "I give you this ring as a token of our love and marriage, as a symbol of all that we share and in recognition of our life together."

Christine removes a plain gold band from the index finger of her right hand and places it on Erik's third finger left hand. "It was my father's ring from my mother," she tells him. "I give you this ring as a token of our love and marriage, as a symbol of all that we share and in recognition of our life together."

"With your permission, M. Magistrate, may we sing the balance of our vows?" Erik inquires.

The magistrate nods. Under normal circumstances, at this point, he would get the papers signed and wish the couple well. The singing, however, would only embellish his tale and he was more than happy to accommodate them – there was something magical at work here. He recalls reading something about an opera singer named Christine or Kristina being kidnapped. Was it she? This was turning out to be a very special wedding, something he had not enjoyed in a very long time.

The beauty of their joined voices fills the room.

 _My days are brighter than morning air_

 _Evergreen pine and autumn blue_

 _But all my days are twice as fair_

 _If I could share_

 _My days with you_

 _My nights are warmer than fire coals_

 _Incense and stars and smoke bamboo_

 _But nights were warm beyond compare_

 _If I could share_

 _My nights with you_

 _To dance in my dreams_

 _To shine when I need the sun_

 _With you_

 _To hold me when dreams are done_

 _And oh..._

 _My dearest love_

 _If you will take my love_

 _Then all my dreams are truly begun_

 _And time weaves ribbons of memory_

 _To sweeten life when youth is through_

 _But I would need no memories there_

 _If I could share_

 _My life with you_

At the end of their duet, Erik and Christine touch their lips to one another's – once, twice, three times each kiss a bit more intense, then break away, laughing. She caresses his cheek and he takes her hand, kissing the palm. "I love you," they say in unison.

"Er, I now pronounce you man and wife," the magistrate interjects.

The hush that fell over the room at the end of the singing dissolves with the sound of applause and murmurs of pleasure – for the song, the kiss and the legal pronouncement.

The magistrate clears his throat. "I just need all of you to sign the papers and, with that, you have fulfilled your legal responsibilities."

The wedding party complies. Thanking the magistrate, they exit the office – everyone speaking at once, expressing happiness, congratulations and…relief.

"Well, I do not know about anyone else, but I am hungry," Nadir declares.

"I reserved a private room for us at that café you like so well on the Bois de Bologne," Erik advises.

"I will see to the carriages," Darius offers, leaving the two couples and Meg to take their time behind him.

Nadir nudges Erik with his elbow, directing his eyes to a man in black hovering next to the wall at the exit. "He was here when we arrived and has not moved."

"He appears to be wearing the collar of a priest – perhaps he is participating in a wedding?" Although when he surveilles the lobby, it is empty except for the five of them and the lone man. "They will be closing the offices soon. I booked our ceremony for the end of the day." He checks his pocket watch. "In fact, the doors will be locked shortly."

"Just my suspicious nature, I suppose," Nadir says. "Speaking of which – did you see if the Vicomte showed up?"

"No, but he was here, I sensed him. Darius saw nothing either. There were many people milling about when we arrived; he did well keeping himself from view."

"At least he did not interfere with the ceremony," Nadir comments as he walks toward Adele and Meg. "Ladies, we should hurry along, they will be locking the doors soon and we do not want to miss our dinner."

Christine holds out her hand to Erik. "Are you coming?"

"A moment."

"What is it?" A frown wrinkles her brow. She puts her arm through his.

The man approaches them. He is a full head shorter that Erik, of slim build with pale skin. His black suit is wool and well-made, so not likely from a poor parish. He removes his black homburg, holding it in both hands.

"Do I know you, mon Pere?" Erik asks. "You seem familiar to me…"

The priest extends his hand. "I am Pere Erik Mansart from St.-Martin-de-Boscherville."

Erik steps back as if struck.

Christine turns him to her. "What is it?" To the priest, "Who are you?"

"I am not a ghost, M. Saint-Rien," the priest smiles at both of them. "My uncle, from whom we both received our name, passed away twenty years ago – I have been often told that I favor him." He shrugs. "I happened to be visiting Paris and saw the posting of your banns. I recalled your name from my youth."

"So you waited here to meet me. Why?" Erik asks.

"Curiosity, I suppose. Perhaps not the best quality for cats _or_ priests to have, better to allow people to speak to you, rather than seek out their problems," he explains.

"So has your curiosity been satisfied?" Erik clutches Christine's hand.

Her eyes fill with concern.

"When I was a seminarian, I visited my uncle, he told me of a boy who lived in the town – his face deformed, a birth defect. Uncle had been present after the birth and named the child because the mother refused."

"You need not proceed further," Erik interrupts him. "I am that boy. What do you want from me?"

"I was hoping that I could speak to you about that time. My uncle died grieving that he had not done more to help you."

"I am afraid that is between him and his god – it has nothing to do with me," Erik responds coldly. "Christine, let us go. Our friends are waiting for us." He begins walking to the door.

"Please, Monsieur. I'm sorry, I did not mean to disturb you or your celebration." He steps in front of Erik and Christine, blocking their way.

"It is not my wish to be rude, however, this is my wedding day, the happiest day in a life that started out quite wretchedly as you seem to know. May we pass?"

"Forgive me, please, it was not my intention to cause harm – your voices were glorious, I felt God's presence surround you – I felt it would somehow be all right if I spoke." He entreats them. "Everyone stopped to listen and smile – except for one young man standing just there," he points across the lobby to an alcove next to the Magistrate's office, "who appeared to cry when the singing began."

The comment jolts Christine – her look to Erik is full of concern. "Raoul?"

Erik nods.

"Oh, no." Looking around, she inches closer to Erik.

Pere Mansart squints at her. "Do you know him?"

"Possibly," Erik dismisses the question with a wave of his hand. "Nothing of significance."

"He left before you exited the Magistrate's office. Ran out, actually," Pere Mansart says. "His behavior did not suit this environment, otherwise I would not have mentioned him."

"Thank you for telling us how the people responded to our song. It was meant to be joyful," Christine says with a weak smile.

"It was truly something very special. But, I digress," the priest continues, "I only wished to set up an appointment – when I might talk to you about that time."

"Why? Would good would that do?"

"My uncle took his own life," the priest responds, his eyes beseeching.

"On, no," Christine cries. "I am so sorry."

Erik's amber eyes shift from anger to pity. "I see." The irony of the priest's information and the presence of Raoul being here during the wedding does not escape him.

"Mon Pere, would you care to join us for dinner?" Christine asks, extending a hand to him. "Our friends are waiting and we would be so pleased to have you share in our celebration."

The priest eyes widen. "I would not wish to impose."

Erik looks down at her, squeezing her hand even tighter. "It is no imposition. Please. Join us. It is not every day when a neighbor appears from the past – particularly one with the same name from the same source."

"Thank you, you are most gracious," Pere Mansart replies. "I would be honored."

Erik leads them from the mairie. He waves at Nadir, Adele, Meg and Darius.

"Hurry, hurry," Nadir shouts, "we are starving!"

Erik lifts Christine into his arms and strides toward their friends, who greet them with a shower of rice. The sadness of their conversation with Fr. Mansart and the specter of Raoul forgotten in the happiness of the moment.

Erik turns around and calls out, "Come along, mon Pere. Meet our family."

 **A/N – The song used in this chapter is entitled "With You," from the show PIPPIN, composed by Stephen Schwartz. While it is not operatic, nor much like the work of ALW (Erik), it is one of my favorites and, I believe, suits both the mood and emotion of this couple and their wedding. The music is really beautiful. I hope you will check it out on YouTube to get the full effect.**


	16. Rebirth

REBIRTH

Erik lifts Christine into the carriage, making certain she is seated comfortably, tucking her gown around her. Signaling with his fingers to Pere Mansart that he enter as well, taking the cleric's arm to assist him inside.

"Are you certain you wish for me to ride with you and your new bride?" the priest asks clearing his throat. "Most couples prefer privacy after their nuptials."

"There are four in the other coach, mon Pere," Erik responds, then smirks, realizing what the priest is referring to. "Not to worry." Stepping out to speak to Nadir, he tells him, "We will meet you at the café."

"Of course, of course," Nadir responds, leaning into Erik to whisper in his ear. "Who is this man?"

"His name is Pere Erik Mansart." Erik waits for Nadir's reaction.

Nadir frowns, his look quizzical. "Erik?"

"His uncle was the priest who baptized me – giving me his own name – and to his nephew as well, it would seem," Erik tells him. "Christine invited him to join us," he advises, "but I assented to her gesture of kindness."

"Even so, to your wedding dinner?"

"Were it not for his uncle, I would not be here in a number of meanings," Erik explains, "it was he who made certain I would have documentation of my birth for one." Erik pats Nadir on the back. "Oh, yes, he also spotted the Vicomte. I owe him a good meal for that bit of information alone."

"So he _was_ here." Nadir comments. "Nice to have that confirmed."

"I will explain the other further, to all of you, when we are together." Erik climbs into the carriage. "Let us be off. I thought you were hungry."

Nadir glances into the cab. "I hope this is not a mistake."

Christine smiles at him, her eyes bright and happy. She mouths, "It is all right."

"Hmmm." Nadir shrugs and joins Darius and the Girys in the first coach.

Utilizing the lover's phone, the communication device he installed in both carriages purchased for use in the new business, he instructs the coachman to follow Nadir's carriage.

He settles in next to Christine, taking her hand in his, pressing his lips to her fingers. A need to touch her in some way at every opportunity to confirm this is the reality of his existence driving him. "Are you quite comfortable, my dear?"

"Perfectly fine."

"I must apologize again for intruding on your celebration. Please feel free to drop me off at any time, I can find my way back to the parish," Pere Mansart tells them.

"We will do nothing of the sort," Erik announces. "You are most welcome to join us. Christine has been imploring me to seek counsel from a priest, so when one appears seemingly out of the blue, it must be taken as a sign."

"You are a wise man," the priest laughs. "Many of my parishioners would be well to know that truth. Your courtship certainly taught you much about one another to have a marriage starting off with such mutual understanding."

Erik and Christine exchange a look of amusement and burst out laughing.

The priest's eyes open wide at the laughter, he flushes with embarrassment. "I am sorry. I do not understand."

"Not many do," Christine says. "Ours was a very unusual courtship." She smooths her skirt. "So, mon Pere, do you plan to be in Paris for very long?"

"I actually only planned to be here for a few days, depending upon whether M. Saint-Rien would see me," he replies. "I was already here for several weeks, which is when I happened across your banns. I returned for the sole purpose of meeting with your husband."

Christine turns to Erik and touches his cheek. "Husband…you are my husband."

"And you are my wife," he covers her hand with his.

The world disappears for them as they become lost in one another's eyes.

Pere Mansart adjusts himself in his seat, coaxing his body as far into the corner of his seat as he is able.

Erik draws himself away from Christine's face and comments to the priest, "After our dinner, we shall take you where you are staying then meet with you tomorrow, if that would be satisfactory."

"Yes. Yes, that would be fine," he mutters. "Again, I apologize for intruding…"

"Life does not always go as one plans, hmm?" Erik says. "We have dealt with much worse."

Again, he and Christine share their private laughter. Closing her eyes, Christine leans her head against his shoulder, Erik smiles down at her, then focuses his eyes above Mansart's head – ending further conversation.

* * *

Mansart turns his eyes to the window, observing the quiet Parisian boulevard. Dusk is near, the street reflects the end of day with the slow traffic – both foot and carriage.

He is honestly confused at what he is experiencing. Based on the awareness of his distorted appearance, along with tales of the disappearance, as well as the rumors of him being stolen by gypsies, Erik Saint-Rien being alive at all was a shock. His obvious high station in life and the presence of such an astonishingly beautiful and talented woman as his bride was a true revelation. His curiosity had been piqued by the banns, had been certain that a marriage for this man was some sort of mistake.

Yet, here he is, in this very private carriage with an elegant and sophisticated _gentle_ man, albeit a man with a mask, whose life as a child tormented his uncle to the point where the elderly priest could bear his guilt no longer, and hanged himself when the boy ran away – 40 years earlier.

Shortly before his death, he expressed his concern about the deformed boy to his nephew.

" _My life will be over soon,"_ the old priest had told him.

" _Are you unwell, Uncle?"_

" _My soul is unwell. My body is failing, but it is my heart and soul that suffer."_

" _Do you wish to make your confession?"_

The senior man laughed. _"I am not certain I believe that will help."_

" _Uncle – that is sacrilege."_

" _My life was devoted to God and the Holy Church, but the past ten years have me questioning the mercy of that God."_

" _The boy? The deformed boy – that is what concerns you? The manner of his life is not your fault."_

" _He was despised by his mother, the village attacked him – killed his dog – the only creature in his life that accepted him for who he was – except for Marie Perrault. She loved him, too, but he trusted no human, not even that kind soul._

" _I should have done more. I helped him to develop his architectural knowledge, but both his mother and I felt it would go nowhere because of his face. He could never live in the world because of the visage – that, and the anger and rage he had locked inside of him because of his mother's animosity towards him."_

" _You helped him. You saved his life at birth, you taught him about good and evil."_

" _I told him his dog did not have a soul and would not see God. The only creature who loved him unconditionally was not beloved by God. Oh, Erik, I am such a fool."_

" _But God forgives fools – you have told me that."_

" _I performed an exorcism on him."_

" _Why?"_

" _I did not know what else to do. He had these rages that I did not understand. I believed him to be possessed."_

" _Why do you think the exorcism was wrong?"_

" _He was angry and hurt – not controlled by demons. After the ceremony, he became crazed – as if the devil was introduced with my actions, instead of removed. He lost his soul then, I think. He trusted me and I failed him. He was a brilliant, talented, loving child and I took that away by inferring he was possessed."_

" _Can you make it right with him? Now that you understand?"_

" _He is gone. He overheard his mother talking with her doctor friend about committing him to an asylum and he ran away."_

" _But he is only ten years old."_

" _Yes. He is only ten years old."_

The young priest blessed his uncle and asked him to make his Act of Contrition.

" _What good will it do?"_

" _It might ease your heart."_

The death still haunted him – he understood his uncle's pain about the boy. The elder Erik Mansart ran away, too, because he, the young priest, had failed him. Suicide was the worst sin because a person could not make a confession to expiate the sin. Perhaps, the bishop's words when Erik spoke to him about his uncle were true: " _He may have been contrite in the moments between the act of killing himself and his death. The Act of Contrition is a short prayer. Saying 'I am sorry' is even shorter. He confessed to you his intent and you absolved him – you must pray and have faith that his own faith had not entirely left him."_

* * *

"Pere Mansart?" Erik's voice pierces his reverie.

"What? Yes, I seem to have drifted off," the priest responds.

"Did you come to the mairie directly from Boscherville?" Christine asks.

"No, I spent the night at the rectory of the Church of the Madeleine."

"Ironies abound," Erik sneers.

"Your mother's name, no? That church is where Adele and Meg attend Mass – I join them on occasion," Christine comments.

"A church, a delightful biscuit and my mother – I cannot escape her." The laugh bitter, eyes cold.

"This was a mistake, M. Saint-Rien." Pere Mansart senses shift in Erik's demeanor. "I should not have bothered you. If you let me out here, I will take my leave and not bother you again."

"No. I dare say that bridge has been crossed." Erik holds up his hand, preventing the man from calling to the driver to stop the carriage. "I want the joy back I felt earlier." The edge in his voice sharp. "It would seem best to deal with these issues now, before they fester, adding to the rot that is my past."

Christine squeezes his hand. "Erik, I love you. We are married. Nothing will change that." A quaver disturbs her usual calm voice, a shadow of darkness clouds the clear aquamarine eyes.

"And I you, my dear wife," he covers her hand with his. "Mon Pere, I do not know what you want from me, but if I can help ease your mind, I will do so."

"You are most gracious," the priest responds.

"I just want done with this," Erik snaps. "Most do not consider me a gracious person, your believing this to be so is a unique experience."

"But…"

"No buts. I suspect you want to know what happened to me after I left Boscherville – you will understand once I tell you why, that I am not considered to be gracious," his tone sardonic, his body tense. "My dearest Christine would vouch for that – the young man you saw crying at the mairie was her suitor – a vicomte. I could not bear the idea of her being with him, so I kidnapped her. The beauty of it was, that she had fallen in love with me when I was her teacher. Oddly, it took my being decidedly _un_ gracious for her to recognize that love. Thus the laughter about our courtship."

"Erik, this may not be the right time," Christine interrupts.

"You have been urging me to confess, so I am confessing." Amber coals burn into her. Whatever goodwill he had forced himself to feel was slipping away. His hands began to shake, fingers playing some melody only he could hear on his thighs.

"Erik, dearest, do not do this to yourself."

"Oh, god, I am sorry, Christine. You are my life and here I am ruining things yet again." He explodes. "This is simply too much. I am sorry." He calls to the driver. "Please pull over." He opens the door of the coach and jumps out. "Take them to the café as planned." To Christine, he says, "I need to be alone for a while. Too much goodness is having a deleterious effect on me." He slams the door shut and slaps the side of the carriage to continue.

"Erik, stop. Where are you going?" Christine calls after him out the window.

"Where am I going? I do not know," he cries out. "I have been to hell. I have been to heaven. I prefer the latter, but I am not sure it is the right place for me."

"Driver. Catch up with him." Christine speaks into the phone. The cab moves forward for a short time, then comes to an abrupt halt, pulling up alongside an Erik bent over in anguish. Christine opens the carriage door to disembark. "Erik. Please. Do not run from me." The ballet slipper loses purchase on the step, she grabs onto the door – her cane falls to the curb.

Erik turns around and runs over to her, grabbing her into his arms, preventing her fall. "Oh, my dear, I did not wish for you to be hurt."

She holds his face in her hands and kisses him, forcing him to respond, pressing her lips hard against his, her tongue entering his mouth, breathing her life into him, "I love you. I love you."

The truth of her love and compassion reaches to the depths of his pain and calms him. He relaxes and holds the back of her head with his hand, returning her kiss – bringing her closer to him. "I love you." Tears flow from his eyes. "I cannot bear this pain anymore."

"Tell him, my darling. Free yourself," she pleads with him.

Erik helps her back into the coach. He returns to his seat, pressing his head into his hands. His hat falls to the floor, Christine picks it up and places it on her lap.

She smooths his wig, then massages his neck and rubs his back. Her eyes meet Pere Mansart's in a plea. "He would like to make his Confession."

Pere Mansart nods, then removes a purple stole from his pocket, after kissing it, he places it around his neck. "Monsieur and Madame, I cannot express sufficient sorrow for intruding into your life like this. What I hope is, this is one of those mystical meetings assisting us on our respective journeys."

Erik lifts his head to face him, his voice harsh as he growls, "I was born a monster. That is what I was told – not in those words, but the truth, nonetheless. My mother refused to touch me or let me touch her. I was a child – her child, but she would not kiss me. I first saw my face when I was 5 years old, on my birthday – she gave me a mirror. I saw a monster in the mirror and was terrified. The broken glass nearly caused my death – but dear Marie took care of me. Still I wanted my mother. She told me what I saw in the mirror was me. I thought it was a mystery – the mirror hid my face and only showed me the monster. Then I realized the face was mine. I was the monster.

"This face." He removes his mask. "Older, wizened, but you can imagine this face on a child. Imagine further if you were that child."

The barest twitch of his left eye and the faintest intake of breath are the only indications Pere Mansart gives to suggest that Erik's revelation is anything more than someone frowning or grimacing at him. No shock or fear is evidenced on the priest's face. Soft brown eyes are sad, years of seeing the pain of others is reflected in the gentle way he gazes at the burden Erik carries – has carried.

The priest's lacking the expected response of horror takes Erik aback – assuaging much of his anger. The recitation becomes almost rote, a litany of sins expressed without emotion. "After I ran away, I became a true monster. I was beaten, mercilessly at times, scarred by others, later I stole and I murdered for hire – life meant nothing to me – neither mine nor anyone else's. Life was pain – that which I experienced and that which I could inflict on others. I would eventually create tortures for people so they would die the harshest deaths possible – at the whims of a Persian princess…and to keep this ruined body alive.

"Then I met a dying child who loved me." Golden eyes soften at the memory of Reza. "And a man who saw some remnant of humanity in me; who would ultimately risk his life to save mine, thus freeing me from the bondage of the Persian palace.

"I tried to become human again. It was difficult with this face. From childhood I was taught by experience that my face was enough to engender hatred. To your uncle's credit, he tried to help me. I stopped believing in him or any sort of merciful God, but that had nothing to do with him – his heart was pure – he saved my life many times after I left when remembering his counsel. Ultimately I learned that there were other people who could care about me. Had I not known him or Marie Perrault, I would not have experienced any sort of human love as a child."

He turns to face Christine, her smile hopeful. "Then, this incredible woman came into my life and somehow learned to love me – as raw and rough as I was in my treatment of her. Not knowing how to love anyone, I just took her. Her response was to kiss me, the first person to ever kiss me, and tell me she loved me… and married me." He sighs, exhausted. "That is my life, emptied here in this carriage at your feet. Are your questions answered?"

"Yes, they are. He believed that he betrayed you. I am happy to know that he did not. My prayer is that he somehow had an awareness of that before life left his body."

"He did what he knew…the exorcism…" Erik's voice drifts off. "He wore a similar scarf during the act."

"This is the stole for both the Sacrament of Confession and for exorcisms – purple is the color of healing," he explains. "I must ask you: do you regret the times you felt you had no soul – your acts, whatever they may have been? It appears that this is the case – you 'tried to become human again' are the words you used."

"Yes, I suppose I do." Erik responds. "When I thought I was going to lose Christine and she showed me compassion instead of hate for my behavior, I knew I had to let her go. She had to be free, even if it meant I was to be alone. I could not hate anymore. There had already been too much pain."

Christine shifts closer to him, her arm in his, clutching his hand.

"I absolve you of your sins, in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit," he says the words while making the sign of the cross, blessing both Erik and Christine.

"What was that?"

"You made a confession of your life and those things you were penitent about and I, as an ordained priest, absolved you," Pere smiles at him. "You said that your wife wished you to receive the sacrament of Confession. You have fulfilled her wish."

"That is all?" Erik is astounded, relieved. He replaces his mask and hat. "There are no prayers I must say? Acts I must fulfill?"

"There is a prayer, called the Act of Contrition, would you be willing to pray? I do not want to force anything on you. I realize that the Church has not been kind to you."

Erik looks to Christine. She nods.

"My wife seems to think that this might help me, so I am willing to say this prayer."

"Fine then, just repeat the words after me: O my God, I am heartily sorry for having offended Thee, and I detest all my sins, because I dread the loss of heaven and the pains of hell, but most of all because they offend Thee, my God, who art all good and deserving of all my love. I firmly resolve with the help of thy grace to confess my sins, to do penance, and to amend my life."

Erik follows Pere Mansart's lead, murmuring, "Amen" in unison with the priest.

"The pastor at the Madeleine church would be able to help you with a written copy of the prayer, should you wish to say it again. Many people recite the words before sleep each night. In terms of penance, making some effort to support that church would be helpful – they have a magnificent organ and I believe you play – your music would be healing for everyone," the priest says.

Erik nods.

"It is not my place to judge you. I am not going to pretend to ignore what you have said, even in this brief context – murder is not something that can be taken lightly. What I observe, however, from those around you, is that you understand what you have lived was not acceptable – not only to God, but to you. You ultimately determine the state of your soul. You have suffered quite enough, I think, for situations that were not of your doing. Just be cognizant of your actions," the priest counsels. "If you feel that you need to talk, Boscherville is not that far away. You still have property there, do you not?"

"Yes," Erik says looking over to Christine. "The house is rented. I had thought to sell the property off, but decided it would be better to keep it."

Their attention is disturbed by the appearance of Nadir's carriage pulling up alongside them.

Nadir jumps out of the cab and sticks his head in the window next to Christine. "What is wrong? Is someone ill? We reached the café and did not see you."

"Pere Mansart and I became engaged in a…conversation that was best completed before proceeding," Erik explains.

Nadir looks all of them over, narrowing his eyes.

The priest nods at the daroga before removing and folding his stole returning it to his pocket.

Christine adjust her position, putting pressure on her foot and flinches.

"What happened to your foot? It was fine earlier," Nadir asks. "Where is your cane?" He looks down and sees it in the street next to the carriage.

Erik steps in with a terse response before Christine can answer. "I behaved badly and left the carriage. Christine tried to follow me, losing the cane when the carriage door was opened."

"What is wrong with you? Can you not bear to be happy for more than an hour at a time?" Nadir yells at him. Picking up the cane, he hands it to Christine through the window. "Do you still wish to have the dinner party?"

"Most definitely," Christine answers. "Erik?"

"I would not miss it," he responds. "Why would you think otherwise? Mon Pere, you still wish to join us?"

The priest nods in acquiescence. "I think a nice meal would be quite enjoyable."

"This is the man who saved my life, mon Pere. As you can see, he sometimes regrets that act," Erik mutters.

Nadir chuffs. "I never realized that it would become my life's work."

The levity relieves the tension.

"Can we please go to the café? We are already late for our reservation and will be lucky if they even wish to serve us," Nadir complains. "Lest you all forget, I am hungry and two lovely ladies and Darius are waiting." He storms back to his carriage.

* * *

Erik carries Christine into the sitting room and sets her down on the sofa. "Well, it is tradition to carry the bride over the threshold to ward off evil spirits – hopefully I am not the spirit to be avoided."

"Oh stop, Erik, you are no evil spirit – you never were," Christine argues.

"I am sorry you re-injured your foot."

"It is nothing, although I would like those new shoes you have been promising."

With the exception of one small box, Erik takes the packages she carries and places them on the coffee table. "Let me put the remains of the croquemouche in the larder – that is, unless, you wish to finish eating the profiteroles now."

"Can you blame me, the pastry is delicious," she laughs. "But, yes, please put them aside. I am ready to burst."

Erik returns from the kitchen and sits next to her on the settee. "I was surprised by the gifts," he says. "I am still such a heathen in many ways."

Christine holds up the ruby and sapphire-colored, fringed scarf that Nadir gave them as a drape for the piano. "This is gorgeous – the detail of the fleur de lis embroidery is exceptional. Whoever worked on this is a gifted artist – the stitches are so delicate and perfect."

"He was so pleased that you liked it. I could see his eyes get misty," Erik remarks. "It takes much for the old daroga to forget his determination to be unemotional – not that his determination is often successful."

Meg and Adele gifted them with a white porcelain tea service decorated in simple gold leaf pattern. "Adele has such lovely taste – she does like her tea and aperitif services. I believe she has at least three sets of each," Christine remarks, "those and the crystal bowls that she refuses to make use of – _they are pieces of art and for display only._ We almost always eat and drink from chipped crockery."

"Pere Mansart gave us, possibly the best gift – thank you for your insistence, my dear," Erik tells her, resting his head on her shoulder.

She gently removes his mask, smooths his hair and places kisses on the ridge that bisects his skull.

"No hair comments?" he laughs.

"Maybe later."

"It is difficult to explain how I feel about the confession. Unshackled. All of my life I have felt on guard, unable to fully express myself. It was only through music could I experience any freedom, but even my music had a defensive quality to it."

"And now?" Christine asks, her lips still pressed against the deformity.

"I feel free, odd as that may seem, something about him – maybe because he was a stranger made it easier to recollect and speak, I do not know," he admits. "When he told me that his uncle had taken his own life, I was shocked to the core. He had told me that it was the worse sin. Over the years, there were many times I considered suicide, but would remember his words and move forward. I even told Raoul about him when he threatened to kill himself."

"Perhaps, he asked for forgiveness before he died, like Pere Mansart suggested," Christine comforts him. "We shall have to pray for his soul."

Erik lifts his head and kisses her on the cheek. "Let us get out of these clothes." He lifts her up and carries her to her bedroom.

"Do you not want to use your room?"

He stops short. "You no longer wish to sleep with me?"

Christine sighs, "Will you stop being such a silly? I just thought you might want _us_ to sleep in your room for a change, now that we are legally wed."

"I had not considered that. The room is dreary and dark – it needs your gentle touch, I think," he remarks. "We need to move from here. I no longer wish to live in the darkness and you deserve sunlight and fresh air. In the meantime, let us return to the place where we first consummated our love."

"That will be perfectly fine."

They enter the pink and white room and Erik sets her down. Removing the headpiece from her curls, he places it on the vanity.

She undoes his cravat, folds it and places it next to the veil.

Removing his coat and waistcoat, he lops them over the vanity bench, then toes off his shoes. Never taking his eyes from hers, he unbuttons the bodice of her dress, slipping it down her arms. Moving his hands to the back of the dress, he unclasps the bustle allowing the gown to fall to the floor in a puddle along with its clutter of underpinnings. He picks them up, laying them across the bench with his clothing.

Christine unbuttons his trousers and loosens them so they fall to floor. "Pick them up and lay them with the other garments – no more strewing clothing all over the floor. We are a married couple now and must behave as grown-ups," she intones.

A laugh gurgles up, but he stifles it, not certain if she is serious.

Lifting her up again, he carries her over to the side of the bed and watches as her delicate fingers undo the buttons of his shirt, sliding it from his body, then tracing the scars that the disrobing reveal. Her full lips find his nipples, kissing and licking, sucking them until they peak.

Erik groans, "You are a witch."

Her tongue skims his chest to his navel. Kneeling in front of him, she tugs off his drawers, exposing his erection. Taking him into her mouth, she runs her sheathed teeth up and down his shaft. Pulling back to lick the head of his member, she strokes him with one hand applying gentle pressure to the base, massaging his sac with the other.

"Christine, what are you doing to me? I can hardly keep to my feet?"

Giggling, she stands up, pressing her fingertips against his shoulders she gives him a gentle shove. His legs push against the side of the bed and he falls backwards. "Then by all means lie down." Drawers are cleared away from his feet, and with his stockings are tossed over her head.

"Not fair," he complains, lying on his back, legs hanging over the side of the bed. "You are still clothed, I cannot see you."

"Scoot up," she commands, waving her hand at him.

Using his elbows he adjusts himself so he is completely on the four-poster, maintaining that posture to better watch her.

A sly gleam in eyes now deep emerald in color, her lace embellished drawers are removed and follow his over her shoulder to the floor. She crawls onto the bed straddling him, her knees braced against his thin hips. His engorged member is guided to her private place, already wet with desire. "Ah," she sighs, settling down on him taking him fully inside of her.

"But I must take care of your pleasure first..." He gasps, the words barely audible.

"You are my pleasure." Crossing her arms in front of her, she pulls the chemise over her head throwing it aside, arching her back, she thrusts her breasts toward him.

His long fingers glide up her torso to stroke her breasts one in each hand, his thumbs brushing against her nipples until they pucker and become hard. One hand travels down over her soft belly to her center, a thumb presses against her, where their bodies conjoin, as she moves rhythmically, stroking him with the muscles of her canal.

Bending over to kiss him a cascade of the chestnut curls, loosened from their pins and combs, fall to shroud their heads.

Pulling her to him, he rolls them over, taking the top position, increasing his thrusts, locking them in the oneness they desire. He adjusts himself, listening for the sounds that tell him he has found her pleasure point.

The urge to release is strong, he holds back for a moment to look at her face. "My wife," he says, "May I?"

"Oh, yes," she replies, smiling at him before whispering, "my husband."


	17. Compositions

COMPOSITIONS

"Merde!" Erik throws his pen down, eight fingers and two thumbs attack the piano keys creating a horrendous chord, before he slams the fallboard shut in a grand finale.

The shift from melodious music, albeit somewhat unstructured, jolts Christine from her embroidery. Having remodeled her wedding dress and creating the cravats and cuffs for the wedding reawakened her interest in needlecraft, not that it no longer involved mending castaways into wearable clothing. Nesting instincts are abloom in her, now that she has this home and, if Erik is to be believed, and she does believe him, a new home above ground is part of their immediate future. All of the existing linen in their household is being monogrammed – E entwined with C – sheets, towels, pillow slips, napkins and whatever else she can find stored in the cupboards. Once again, she admires her husband's taste.

* * *

" _Some of the articles came from my mother's house,"_ he told her. _"As does much of this furniture. She did have excellent taste, so when making new purchases I followed her lead."_

" _I am surprised that you kept anything,"_ she replied. " _Considering…"_

" _Beauty is beauty – even those with ugly souls can appreciate and acquire beauty,"_ he remarks. " _Often they are the only ones who have the means."_

" _I had not thought of that."_

" _You are too pure, my wife, to know of such things. You see beauty where others are blind,"_ he smiles. _"I consider myself the perfect example of that."_

Christine laughed at his self-deprecation. There was a lightness about him since their wedding…and his confession to Pere Mansart. The straw she grasped at when, despite his recollections to her about his past, he was still tormented unable to sleep because of nightmares or unwilling to sleep in order to avoid them. The ever-present pain threatened to ruin the beginning of their life together as husband and wife.

" _Erik. Erik. Wake up. Please, wake up."_

In his terror he had thrown his arm over her, his hand striking her cheek. There was no damage, except for the shock and her immediate reaction of fear at being awakened in such a way. The usual method of Erik rising was a kiss to her forehead before his stealth exit, taking care not to disturb her.

" _What?_ He forced his eyes open, sweat pouring down his face, his breathing harsh.

" _You had a bad dream, my darling man,"_ Christine answered, wiping the perspiration from his brow with the edge of the sheet.

" _Did I strike you?"_ He asked. " _Oh, God, I did. I beg your forgiveness."_

" _It was nothing,"_ she replied. " _I was concerned for you and whatever demons you were battling in your sleep."_

" _I must not sleep with you anymore."_

" _That is not an option,"_ she corrected him. _"We will work this through together."_

Prayer became a regular part of her day, prayer to help him heal. While she enjoyed the pageantry of the Masses she attended with Madame, she was not particularly religious nor drawn to practice – the rigidity, if Madame was to be believed, was not attractive to her. Life on the road with her father had not lent itself to church going or becoming a member of any church. Erik's life experience was even further removed from looking to God for answers. Still, he was baptized Catholic, the tenets taught to him as a child – she was superstitious enough to believe it meant something to him, deep within.

What was the saying? _Give me the child until he is 7 and I will show you the man._

From what she understood of his childhood, his mother refused him any physical contact once he was weaned, but made certain he was well cared for in all other ways. Raised in a wealthy home, his education was first and foremost geared to his most curious mind. His obsession with learning and perfecting whatever it was he was studying – mostly music and architecture had him declared a prodigy. The family were practicing Catholics and Erik was raised to follow that faith – as much as a child could. Pere Mansart senior was his mentor in that arena. Christine believed it was the grace of God that brought the priest into his life.

The crisis of his introduction to his own face set him on the road of anger and hatred. She could see all of this in the man – those first seven years. The benediction had helped enormously. Since their wedding day, his outbursts tended to be directed at more mundane frustrations, mostly his inability to mold situations to his liking by just wishing them to be so. Judging from the cursing and assault on the piano, the composition in his head was not cooperating and Erik was determined to win the battle.

* * *

"What is wrong?" she asks, her tone mild and interested, but without accusation.

"Damnable notes will not flow to the staff as they used to," he growls, swinging his legs over the bench to face her. "I hear them in my head, but cannot put them to paper – it is as if I am playing between the keys. You must be hearing it."

"Misbehaving notes are the absolute worst," she chides him. "I admit they do seem to be particularly obstinate in this current piece. The sounds are beautiful, but do not seem connected to anything – the flow is absent."

"Precisely," he brightens at her understanding of his frustration. "It took me twenty years to write Don Juan Triumphant, but that was because I was not consistent. I always knew what it was about and could pick up where I left off."

"So the issue is not knowing the direction of the piece – what you hope to accomplish?" She posits. "Thus the notes seem to be contrary and uncooperative."

"Yes, that is exactly right," his excitement accelerates. "When we met, I felt this incredible attraction to you – your singing, of course, your beauty, most definitely, but it was more. There was a connection between our minds – you _knew_ me and I _knew_ you – no words were needed."

"I know – every time I would try to tear myself away and convince myself that I could not possibly love you, I would be drawn back to you by word, or a look – a thread of a song that would not let me leave you.

"We wrote our wedding song together…."

"Yes, we did." He faces the keyboard again, lifts the fallboard and plays what he has written again. "Perhaps if you sing this. Maybe that is what is needed is you."

Putting her sewing aside, she uses the cane to help her to her feet. "I will be so happy to be rid of this."

"Do you want me to carry you?" He offers, rising from the piano bench.

"No," she urges. "Stay put. I love you, but I am also tired of being carried around. I want my feet back." Her steps, though still halting and with a slight limp, are decidedly smoother than they were two weeks prior."

Erik begins playing warm-up chords and Christine begins singing scales as she makes her way to the side of the piano. After a few minutes he joins her. "I think I could use some warming up as well." They spend about half an hour on exercises.

"I need to be practicing more if I am to sing Aminta," she comments.

"Um," Erik says.

"On no, not 'um' again – what is it?" Christine asks. "Wait, do not tell me. You do not want Don Juan performed?"

"Um."

"Why not?" She exclaims. "It was your life's work – twenty years."

"The length of your life, my dear." Erik muses, "Perhaps I was waiting for you in order to write my real masterpiece."

"Oh, posh."

"I do not believe it represents who I am anymore. It was a dark fantasy of mine and now I find it unappealing and not something I want others to see or hear."

"I suppose that everyone else knows about this?" Her tone accusatory, but resigned.

"The decision was rather rash, I must say. It was not my intention when I went to see the managers, but sitting in their office, their silly, bland faces and kowtowing behavior toward me made the decision."

"How so?"

"They wanted the money and the publicity, but they hated the opera. They did not say that, of course. They are still terrified of me – which I have no issue with at all. However, all of you hated it. It was unappealing – something I was very aware of – the music was very intense and filled with the darkness of my heart. I wanted to punish all of you and the audience with my deepest pain," his voice calm in his recitation. "Carlotta was correct when she commented that no one would know when someone was singing off key, because the entire piece was written that way." A grudging laugh is his acceptance of the opinion of the cast and crew. "Lord knows I am not a fan of the lady, but she did speak the truth."

"You do not want anyone to live with that in their lives – is that what you are trying to say?"

He nods. "I want beauty and harmony and love – passion that comes from love. Don Juan was a soulless bastard."

"Point of No Return is a beautiful song, though – sensual and real," she says. "It is so different from the rest of the opera in musicality. I loved singing it."

"Perhaps we could keep that song, but no more operas – although I did have an idea for one – I want my work to be arias, duets, perhaps cantata, not these major expensive productions that might fail. Primarily, though, just works for you to sing – here and in other places, if you would like that, once we build your reputation."

Christine sits next to him on the bench. "I thought you loved opera and everything about it. I do like the idea of singing special songs, though, and travelling. I was not aware of how much I missed it."

"Then we shall travel – we have a number of homes – but only after we re-settle here in Paris – above ground, if you are agreeable. I do not wish you to feel controlled."

Kissing him on the cheek, she murmurs, "You know me too well."

"We know each other," he says.

"So what was your opera idea – maybe it would be workable?"

"I used our situation, but with an alternate ending: you come back to me – just before you were to marry the boy. You realize you made a mistake in leaving me. We make love, but I am in fear for my life and I leave for America by boat with Mme. Giry and Meg – it goes on from there. I make a new life and create a fortune, but cannot forget you and ten years later, I lure you to New York," he explains. "That is the gist."

A frown creases Christine's brow, the expectant look on Erik's face fades.

"Except for the part about my leaving you being a mistake, that's just silly," Christine huffs. "Knowing what you know, how you could leave _me_ after making love is just unfathomable. You would certainly miss that boat and the next and the next if our time together is any example. Or, if you did by some chance board a boat, you would see me not far behind swimming after you."

"As I said, it was just an idea." He shrugs, looking sheepish.

"A very bad one," she rules, taking to her feet again. "So, let me sing what you have written so far – it will be our new joint effort."

The music sheets are spread out along the music desk.

"This is a portion of my Requiem Mass, one of my first efforts. I believe would be something people would enjoy listening to without the entire Mass. Initially for one voice, but would be better for two voices that would enhance one another. It is the Pie Jesu combined with the Agnus Dei. Let us see if we can work through the piece together." Singing the lyric, he plays the piece for Christine.

 _Pie Jesu, pie Jesu, pie Jesu_

 _Qui tollis peccata mundi,_

 _Dona eis requiem. Dona eis requiem._

 _Agnus Dei, Agnus Dei, Agnus Dei_

 _Qui tollis peccata mundi,_

 _Dona eis requiem. Dona eis requiem._

 _Sempiternam. Requiem._

"The prayer is beautiful, especially with your singing – but is missing something – more words?" She points to the music. "Here – there should be another repetition of pie Jesu – four times, not three."

"Three is the usual, odd numbers for balance," he challenges.

"I know the rule, this needs four to give the entire verse seven elements. The same with the Agnus Dei," she insists. "Also, if this is a duet, the lower voice needs to sing at least the _pie Jesu_ section as a solo, to introduce that element. Then bring in the harmony with _qui tollis_. Three verses - that will also give you your odd number. End it by adding another requiem and sempiternam."

He adds the words, then makes the adjustments she has suggested and they sing:

 _Pie Jesu, pie Jesu, pie Jesu, pie Jesu_

 _Qui tollis peccata mundi,_

 _Dona eis requiem. Dona eis requiem._

 _Pie Jesu, pie Jesu, pie Jesu, pie Jesu_

 _Qui tollis peccata mundi,_

 _Dona eis requiem. Dona eis requiem._

 _Agnus Dei, Agnus Dei, Agnus Dei, Agnus Dei._

 _Qui tollis peccata mundi,_

 _Dona eis requiem. Dona eis requiem._

 _Sempiternam. Sempiternam._

 _Requiem/Sempiternam._

"We need to practice more, that was a bit rough, at least for me, but this is wonderful."

"It needed your influence and your voice."

"With you."

* * *

"I asked them to keep this dressing room vacant," Erik advises as he opens the mirror for them to pass through.

"Very wise, of you, my husband," Christine comments. "Very handy especially if it is raining outside. Once we move house, however, it may not be quite as practical. You also need to get out into the fresh air – as do I. It is simply not healthy living underground."

"True enough, but for now, I prefer this to taking a carriage around the building for appearances sake."

The small dressing room has hardly changed since that night weeks ago. Christine wonders if anyone has been in the room since then. The dress and hooded cloak she wore to the theater that night still hangs in the armoire. The day dress she dons now is similar in cut, but the fabric is richer, the lace finer, the blue deeper in tone – her cloak cashmere, not cotton and rough wool. Erik might have used her refurbished dress as a model for the design he gave to the dressmaker for this gown.

The photograph of her father still sits on the dressing table.

"Bring the clothing, please." She picks up the silver filigree frame and smiles.

Erik drapes the blue dress and cloak over his arm. "May I see?"

Christine shows him Gustave's photo, she caresses the glass with her fingertips before handing it to him.

"Most handsome - you favor him – the shape of your face and your eyes are like his, full of light." He hands the frame back to her; she puts it in her drawstring purse.

Closing the door behind them, they walk to Adele's office, Erik knocks lightly on the door.

"Enter," Adele calls out, turning to see who accepts her invitation. Nadir is expected, but, although late in the day, she does not expect him for another hour.

Erik holds the door for Christine, then closes it behind them.

The desk is covered with stacks of papers, of various sizes and colors.

Christine walks over to her former guardian and hugs her. "You look busy." To Erik: "Is this the work you have given to your friend?"

Adele, uncomfortable at the affection, pulls away after placing a quick kiss in the air next to Christine's cheek. Sitting back in her chair, she tosses her pen on the desk. "To what do I owe this pleasure – both of you?"

"I, for one, wonder how the revival of Hannibal is going."

"Well, I would say," she replies. "Everyone is so happy to be working."

"On something other than Don Juan?" The tone droll.

"Truthfully…yes." She lowers her eyelids and looks at Erik from beneath them, a bit coy, teasing him back.

Christine observes the ease with which Erik and Adele relate to one another – old friends. This is not the Madame she knows – loving, certainly, but firm and distant. Cold, even, despite her efforts to bring warmth to their relationship. Things were much the same when her father was still alive. Their bonding had left her bereft of his company, still Christine was happy that her father found a partner in Madame. The same with Erik – Madame had been a true friend to him and he would never abandon her.

Business is not something that particularly interests her, but an awareness of the operations is something she feels she should understand. Madame appears to like her new job – for that Christine happy. Her attention is guided back to their conversation by a topic of great concern to her.

"…and the ballet girls?" Erik asks.

"Darius is a treasure. The rats feel much safer with him around. The patrons can flirt and look and the girls can respond, but they no longer feel threatened."

"Has M. Robert shown his face?" Christine asks. "I have been concerned about Meg. She is still upset over his advances."

"Just once, he seemed to be up to something until he saw Darius," Adele responds. "However, I do not think we have seen the last of him. Meg is still wary and stays close to Darius whenever she is rehearsing."

"Nadir is looking into increasing the overall security staff – Darius cannot be everywhere at once," Erik says. "But back to the business at hand. How do we pay for all of this?"

Adele waves her hand over her desk. These are the bills that I have taken over from the managers. Payroll, supplies, utilities.

"What are _they_ doing?"

"Hobnobbing the patrons, soothing the ruffled feathers that the presence of Darius has created," she responds. "I give them credit, however, they are happy with the idea of securing the premises. There have been fewer thefts of props and other items, so they have good answers when challenged both by their limits of access to the dancers and the amount of money being spent."

"As for income…we need to open soon." Adele announces.

"Yes. With the appropriate advertising, would ten days be out of the question?"

"As it turns out, that is exactly what has been advertised," Adele says, nodding her head. "The managers have been promoting the opening already – part of the hobnobbing. Hoping to make enough to cover the existing expenses."

"And, perhaps, making more?"

"Precisely." Adele looks at Christine, who has taken a seat on the chaise. "Will you be singing Elissa? I had refrained from casting the role until I spoke to you."

"Yes, I would love to sing again," she replies looking up at Erik.

"My Angel on stage – receiving the acclaim she so rightly deserves."

"Good – saves me having to listen to an assortment of voices attempting the cadenza – although some of the girls are quite proficient," she jokes. "Truthfully, Erik, I was not aware of how challenging this job would be. I do not have your ear, but I do know what is not good."

"That is why you are perfect for the role," he says. "This is not too much for you?"

"No," she admits. "I enjoy _officially_ having control, to be honest."

"What I would like to see happen is bringing together a program of musical pieces from different operas and new works by composers – perhaps themed in some way. We can still use our performers and crews, but will not be locked into a set two hour piece that we may not be able to market. Choosing an aria or a duet from a favorite opera might do better than producing the entire opera. The composer would still get a royalty, but it would be less, but their work would still be heard, probably more often than if we produced an entire opera."

"That is certainly ambitious, but might be workable. Having Hannibal running will give us time to develop the ideas you have."

"Good. We are going to the auditorium," he tells her. "We have written a new piece and want to hear how it sounds in the house. Would you care to join us?"

"Most certainly," she says.

"May I leave this here?" He shows her Christine's clothes.

"Of course, just lay them on the chair – pick them up when you leave."

Adele locks the door behind them and they make their way through the corridor to the backstage of the auditorium.

* * *

"You said 'we'…" Adele continues as they walk. "Christine are you composing now?"

"Just assisting, we all seem to be expanding our lives and finding other skills," Christine responds. There it is, the edge in her voice. Could she be jealous? That is ridiculous – first her father, now her husband. Erik mentioned something about the opera he had considered writing – Madame and Meg were going with him to America, leaving her behind. Why would he even think of that? Erik's voice interrupts her thoughts.

"…a portion from the Requiem Mass I wrote years ago. Christine made some suggestions and we believe it can work as a duet."

"Would you be singing?" Adele asks.

"No. I think it better if I remain behind the scenes. We want this Opera House to be a success."

"I would need someone to sing with," Christine tells her. "Is there someone in the chorus? Suzette has a lovely alto…"

As they approach the wings, the sound of an untrained, but wrenchingly beautiful soprano voice comes from the stage singing "Think of Me."

Erik stops to listen. "I felt much like this when I first heard you, my dear," he whispers to Christine. "However, this is the voice of a boy. So I suspect, he sounds more like me than you."

They step from behind the velvet curtains and see Andre, the young messenger, donning a feathered cavalier hat, gold braided jacket and sword borrowed from wardrobe. His own clothes are worn and much too small for him – the contrast to the seeming luxury of the costume obvious.

"Ahem," Erik coughs lightly.

The boy stops – his brown eyes grow huge at the sight of the masked man and search for a place to run, to hide.

"Stop, Andre," Adele commands. "It is all right."

"I am s-sorry," the boy stutters. "I did not know anyone was here. Usually no one is here at this time."

"You were singing the soprano's aria," Christine says.

"Yes, Madame, it is what I know by heart," he tells her. Calm now that the women are speaking, he directs his focus away from Erik and studies Christine. "Oh, it _is_ you. You sang the song. It was beautiful."

"Thank you," Christine says. "You are a very fine singer yourself."

The boy blushes. "I love music."

"So this is why I can always find you when I need to send a message?" Adele remarks.

"Partly, Madame. There is always someone here that needs an errand run. It helps me to make money." His boyish exuberance returns – proud of his work.

"Ah, a businessman and an artist – you are a man after my own heart," Erik tells him. "I am Erik, the artistic director of the Opera."

"You are not the Opera Ghost?" the boy asks hesitantly.

"No." Erik smiles. "I am Erik." He turns to Christine. "This is my wife, Christine."

"Madame," he bows. "You are married to the Opera Ghost?" He is awestruck.

"I am married to _Erik_. Best you know him in that way." She winks at him.

"So you come here to sing?" Adele asks. "Where do you live?"

"In some rooms with my maman and two of her friends. They work here as cleaners."

"No papa?" asks Christine.

"He was killed during the siege. We had to leave our lodgings, so we moved to the rooms with Agatha and Michelle."

"I am so sorry about your father," Christine tells him.

"Maman and I both work, so we have enough – with the others. It is nice that we work here because of the music."

Erik walks over to the piano. "Come here. Andre, is it?"

Adele nods at Andre and waves him over to Erik with her hand.

Erik plays and sings the first line of the song. "Can you sing this?"

The boy is mesmerized by Erik's voice. "Oh, monsieur, I cannot sing as well as you."

"I do not expect you to, young man – at least not yet," Erik tells him. "Now, let me hear you sing."

"Could you play it again, monsieur, please?"

Erik repeats the phrase. "Here, look at the music, so you know what you are singing."

Andre sings it softly, but on pitch – following the notes with bobs of his head.

Erik rises, going to work on the boy – adjusting his stance, his posture, his breathing.

"Once more."

The sound is stronger and brighter.

"Excellent," he declares. "We will begin lessons tomorrow."

"Monsieur?"

"I will teach you to sing correctly," Erik tells him. "That is what you would like, hmm?"

"Yes, but my maman and my work," the boy is close to tears. "I must work."

"I will pay you. You will sing this song with Madame Christine in the program we are putting together," Erik tells him. "After that, who knows? We will develop your voice, so that when the physical changes happen, you can continue to sing."

"Your idea about a variety of songs is making more and more sense, Erik," Adele tells him.

Christine puts her arm around Andre. The boy knots his dirty hands together – Christine notices that, despite a clean face, his neck is dirty and his clothing consists of little more than rags.

"Where is your mother, Andre?" Christine asks, sending a look to Erik. "We will discuss this with her."

The boy points toward the lobby. "She is polishing the railings," he tells them.

"Let us go talk, then," Erik says and strides down from the stage and starts up the aisles.

"Erik, wait for us – you will terrify the poor woman if you show up by yourself," Christine urges.

He pulls up short, throwing his arms in the air. Turning, he sees Christine still struggling, the boy and Adele, with her own infirmity, behind her. "I am sorry."

He returns to pick Christine up in his arms, but she slaps his hand to shrug him off, side-eyeing Adele. "I can walk. Just keep pace with us."

As always, the auditorium takes her breath away. The colors and the majesty of the architecture always challenges the performers, she believes. A sense of calm comes over the cast when the lights darken – the show becoming the star.

"You helped design this?" She asks Erik, her tone hushed and reverent.

"Mostly the mechanical in this room – the stage, traps. Garnier's tastes are a touch more-um-grand than mine. My greatest contribution were the tunnels, although I did have a hand with the design of the staircases and the Hall of Mirrors," he confides.

"You helped build the Opera House, M. Erik?" the boy asks, his coffee-colored eyes widening again.

"Yes, I helped, Andre." Erik responds. "Are your rooms nearby? This arrondissement can be quite costly."

"No, monsieur, we live about an hour's walk from here."

Erik frowns. "That will not do. Is there a small apartment available in your building, Adele?"

"The attic is free – it is two rooms with a small kitchen area and toilet."

"Can your mother manage climbing stairs?" Erik asks Andre.

"Oui, Monsieur Erik."

"Good."

* * *

The young mother, perhaps 27 years old, is stunned watching her son with Mme. Giry, accompanied by a masked man and a beautiful lady striding toward her across the marble floored lobby. She rises from her knees, folds her dusting rag, and straightens her worn dress and apron to manage a rough curtsey.

"Madame…?" Erik asks.

"Dupree, monsieur, Veronique Dupree." Her eyes avoid Erik's face, most likely from the difference in status than his mask. Her poor gnarled hands belie what is likely the truth of her years.

"I wish to teach your son to sing…and to play the piano, if he would like."

"Monsieur. Thank you, but I cannot pay for lessons," she mumbles.

He waves his hand. "I will pay him. He has the fortune to remind me of myself – musically."

Her faded blue eyes, dart back and forth between the women. Madame Giry wears her usual stern face. The younger woman – the singer – that is who she is – Christine Daae – smiles at her, nodding.

Erik explains that she and her son will be moving to a new apartment of their own, their rent will be a part of Andre's pay for singing at the opera. He will also receive a stipend for his work. Andre can still run errands, but his music must come first. He will have lessons daily for one hour daily until his voice gets stronger. Afterwards, the lessons will get longer, but once he is done, his time is his own.

Stunned by Erik's recital, all Veronique can say is, "My son has a beautiful voice." Her pale face alight with pride.

"Yes, Madame, and it will be even better." Erik assures her. "Will your friends be able to pay the rent without your help?

Taken aback, she replies, "I do not know, monsieur. They told me how much it would be for the two of us, so that is what I pay."

He looks at Adele.

"This will be a trifle touchy," she tells him. "They all work here, I would not wish to cause any jealousy."

"Perhaps a larger flat, so they can still be together – the others will suffer no increase – and no hard feelings?"

"I will arrange something – perhaps Nadir has a vacancy."

Veronique follows the conversation with her eyes. "My friends will move with us?"

"If that is acceptable to you," Christine responds, giving Erik a stern look.

Veronique relaxes, emitting a deep sigh, "Oh, thank you. Thank you. They took me in when Jacques was ki…when Jacques died. I do not know what the rent is, we all put in what we have, none of us has very much." She lowers her head.

"Then we will arrange something for all of you," Adele advises.

"Very well, I will leave the details to you, Adele," Erik says. "As for you, young man, I will meet with you tomorrow. What is the best time for you, since you are the working man?"

"This time of day, Monsieur."

"Six o'clock it is." He tips his hat to Madame Dupree. "Thank you."

"Thank you, monsieur." Andre runs to hug his mother.

Veronique lifts her eyes and whispers, "Thank you."

* * *

Erik turns from the mother and son to Christine and offers his arm, which she takes.

"Adele, would you like to join us for dinner?"

"Nadir should be here shortly. Would you like to join us?"

Erik looks to Christine.

"That sounds like fun."

"Fun?"

"Yes, having a meal with friends is fun, remember? We had fun at our wedding dinner." She reminds him with a nudge to his ribs. "We would very much enjoy having dinner with you and Nadir. Thank you for the invitation."

A sly smile forms on Erik's face. "Speaking of fun…Adele, may we be excused for a moment? We will meet you in your office, if that is acceptable."

"Of course. It will give me time to freshen up."

Christine stops her with hand on her arm. Adele turns, moving away from Christine's hand.

"Madame, could you arrange for Veronique to have the dress and cloak we left in your office?" She turns to Erik. "With all the new outfits you bought for me, perhaps we can give her my other clothing? The boy also needs new things and shoes."

"Of course, we shall take care of all of them. I seem to recall promising everyone new shoes – we shall just add their little family to the list."

"Thank you." Her eyes fill with tears. "That means so much to me."

"I know, my dear." He pats her hand. "Our pasts are always with us, in this instance, it is for the good."

"I will take care of the dress and cloak." Adele stops walking, but does not turn around. "Is there anything else?"

"No, nothing else," Christine says.

"Very well." Adele proceeds to her office.

"Thank you, Madame," Christine calls after her.

* * *

"Come along." Erik begins walking, taking long strides, guiding her back into the auditorium. "I seem to recall that most of the _fun_ on our wedding day was after dinner."

"I agree." Lifting her skirts to keep pace with him, Christine declares, "Madame is in love with you, you know?"

"Do you want me to carry you?" he asks. "You did not wish it earlier."

"I did not want you carrying me when Madame is in infinitely more pain than I am at any given moment," she responds testily. "Yes, I would like for you to carry me now as these slippers are not designed for walking."

"Why are you upset? What did I do?" Erik frowns as he lifts her up. "You are driving me mad, you know that do you not?

"Nothing, you did nothing," she say, apologetic. "Did you hear what I said?"

"What?"

"Madame is in love with you," Christine repeats.

"What!" he exclaims.

"Erik, do not start that again."

"I am serious. What are you talking about? She is one of my dearest friends – for a time, my only friend. She is…involved with Nadir. You know that."

"That does not mean she is not in love with you. I did not say she was aware of it. She was involved with my father, too, yet she cared for you – neither of us knew about that."

"She was protecting me," he argues. "Christine, the fact is that one woman in this world loves me and married me, and that is all I could ever hope for. You are that woman. To think that I would wish for Adele's affections…"

"You are a very attractive man, my darling. It is not about faces – I thought you would know that by now."

"Still…"

"You were thinking of writing that silly opera about going to America with her and leaving me behind. What made you think of that?"

"You are serious? My God, Christine. You think I have feelings for her – as I have for you?"

"Noooo, but I think you sensed something from her – when you believed I could not love you," she tells him. "I am not sure I can forgive you for that."

His eyes grow large. "Christine!"

"I am teasing you," she laughs. "Nevertheless, Madame is in love with you – or at least, possessive of you."

"You are batty, my dear. I must get you out of the caverns, you are bonding with the wild life."

"I do not blame her for being in love with you, because I am as well. I have you and shall never let you go."

"At least that is settled."

They complete their trek through the auditorium, down the richly carpeted aisle, back onto the stage. Putting her down, he leads her to a trap door at the far end of stage left and springs it open.

Christine looks into the hole. "Oh, Erik. It is still here," she squeals. "Can we try it?"

"Are you certain? I am concerned that you might hurt yourself."

"You go first, so I can see what how to do it." Her green eyes plead.

Erik removes his hat and cape and hands them to her. "Bend over and hold onto your knees, keep your chin tucked in and fall backward. I found this to be the safest method." He demonstrates, landing in the center of the net, bouncing a few times, before grasping the net for purchase, making his way to the ladder. "Toss me the capes and hats – and your bag, be careful with the cane."

She complies. He pulls the items toward him, stashing them alongside the net. "How did you ever expect us to escape this way – what with all the tossing of clothing and things?"

"I told you I was out of my mind," he retorts. "Now follow what I did."

Christine stands at the edge of the trap, takes a deep breath, bends over grasping her knees, and falls backwards through the opening - squealing. Giggles rise as she lands on the net, bouncing just as she saw Erik do. "Again!" she cries, lying on her back, throwing her arms open.

"Perhaps another time, we must meet with Adele and Nadir. You do not want me to break her heart, do you?"

"Come here first," she commands.

He rolls back into the net and their bodies collide and tangle, cradled by the loose fabric. Pulling her close to him, he kisses her laughing mouth, adding his own laughter as the netting embraces them.

"Most definitely fun," he comments.

* * *

 **A/N - The song composed by Erik and Christine is obviously ALW's "Pie Jesu" - a natural choice I thought since Erik is his alter-ego in many ways. The quote: "give me the child...is Aristotle's.**


	18. Progression

PROGRESSION

Despite his efforts to be quiet, the sound of Erik's voice singing a new melody rouses Christine. Slipping out of bed, she pulls on her purple satin dressing gown and pads into the sitting room to find Erik scratching furiously on a sheet of staff paper.

Rubbing her eyes and stifling a yawn, she moves behind him, placing her hands on his shoulders and whispers in his ear, "What are you composing, Maestro? I woke to a lovely serenade, but you were not next to me, but here – working."

Despite her stealth, Erik was, as always, aware of her presence, even as she rose from the bed. He raises his shoulder and turns his head to kiss her hand. "I am creating an aria for you."

With a few steps around the bench, she takes her place next to him, the wrapper loosens to reveal a glimpse of skin. His breath catches. The sheer loveliness of her being is often more than he can bear. The ease with which she carries herself and her openness with him is so foreign – a man who was never touched nor able to touch another human being, is now privileged to enter and become one with this woman not only in body, but in mind and spirit – this woman who loves him and wants him.

"What is it called?" The sizeable stack of music sheets are riffled through. "This is quite a lot of music for something new."

The manuscript is moved to the other side of the piano out of her reach. "Um, this is not exactly new."

Her eyes narrow to slits. "When did you write it?"

"Um."

"Oh, Erik, not um again." She ruffles his sparse hair, carding it with her fingers. Whispering once again in his ear, "What are you hiding?" Her fingers seek out the sensitive area beneath his ribs and tickles him.

Twitching more with each assault, he suppresses the urge to giggle – there is no resisting, much less lying or thinking he can distract her, particularly when every nerve ending in his body is screaming.

"It is that opera you were talking about, is it not?" She lightly pinches his sides.

"Yes."

"I thought so, how much have you written?" Another run of fingertips over his stomach.

"Um."

"The entire opera!"

"No, not the entire opera – a few songs," he gasps, pushing her hands away. "Stop! Here!" Grabbing some of the pages, reviewing first, he chooses several sheets from the top of the pile and shoves them at her. "This is an aria I wrote for you. It is called Love Never Dies."

Taking the sheets offered, she greedily flips through the pages.

Erik breathes in relief.

"Interesting title – is that the name of the opera as well?"

"Yes."

"Odd title, suggests someone or something else dies."

Long, elegant fingers tap his legs, his eyes fixed on the wall behind the piano.

"Me? You killed me off!" She slaps him on the hands.

"It is a tragedy. Someone has to die in a tragedy."

"Why not you?"

"Because I had to take care of our son."

"What son?" She exclaims. "Oh, we made love, then you left me and I was pregnant. I see where this is going. What else? Where is Raoul in all this?"

"You married him and he thinks the boy – Gustave – is his. But he is a drunk, a gambler and abuses you. He has become completely unworthy of you – if he ever was, so I trick him into a bet."

"You bet on me?" She stands up abruptly, the manuscript crumpled in her hand, raising it, threatening to strike him.

"I wrote this before…before I brought you here," he explains, trying to get the music from her. "I never thought I could have you in an honest way."

"Oh, Erik, you dear, silly, foolish, wonderful man." She adjusts her gown and returns to the bench, returning the score to him. "Play the aria for me."

"It is not ready, I am unhappy with it. There are not many lyrics to speak of – I cannot write lyrics."

"Something you cannot do!" She exclaims. "There is a God."

"No need to be sarcastic," he harrumphs, "that is the main reason it took me so long to finish Don Juan – all the words that are necessary in an opera."

"You should have written a symphony then."

"But the singing, the voices – your voice…"

"Then let me work on it with you. This seems to be the way your music will be composed from now on – it will be our music."

He plays and she sings along with the existing lyrics.

One run through complete, she picks up the pencil and writes in some phrases, erasing some of what he has written, or moving it to another section of the score. Mouth pursed in concentration, an occasional brief string of notes escaping her lips, a phrase sung to see if it meets with her approval.

Erik sits calmly, his hands in his lap – struggling to keep his fingers still, observing her write. Something else they seem to have in common, his formal education stopped at age ten, so his writing still has a childlike quality to it – Christine's writing is much the same, although the struggle to put pen to paper is absent. Her composition is quick and sure.

"Why is there such a long orchestral vamp at the beginning?"

"That is a part of the plot…"

"The bet?"

"Yes. The bet," he admits. "If you sing, you stay with me – if you do not sing, you leave with Raoul – the vamp suggests her indecision about singing at all, even though she promised she would."

"So she had already promised to sing before he – you made the bet?"

"Yes."

"You do love Raoul playing the fool."

Erik shrugs. "If the shoe fits…"

She shakes her head. "You are such a snorunge.

"What?"

"Brat, you are a brat," she laughs. "And these directions about hesitation to a build?"

"More of the same," he concedes. "It was intended to be very dramatic."

"What makes you think I would want to be with either of you after that?" Cocking her head at him, a smirk on her face.

"You were never supposed to know…a foolish man's fantasy, I admit, especially with your skills at tickling," he sighs. "Let us see what our collaboration has produced."

Christine rises and stands behind him as he plays the introduction. "Come in when you wish."

She sings:

 _Who knows when love begins?  
Who knows what makes it start?  
One day it's simply there, a life inside your heart,  
It slips into your thoughts.  
It infiltrates your soul.  
It takes you by surprise, then seizes full control._

 _Try to deny it, and try to protest_  
 _But love won't let you go, once you've been possessed._

 _Love never dies, love never falters_  
 _Once it has spoken, love is yours._  
 _Love never fades, love never alters_  
 _Hearts may get broken, love endures._  
 _Hearts may get broken, love endures._

 _And soon as you submit_  
 _Surrender flesh and bone_  
 _That love takes on a life, much bigger than your own._  
 _It uses you at whim_  
 _And drives you to despair,_  
 _And forces you to feel more joy than you can bear._

 _Love gives you pleasure and love brings you pain_  
 _And yet, when both are gone, love will still remain._

 _Love never dies, love never falters  
Once it has spoken, love is yours.  
Love never fades, love never alters  
Life may be fleeting…_

 _Love never dies, love will continue_  
 _Love keeps on beating when you're gone._  
 _Love never dies, once it is in you_  
 _Life may be fleeting, love lives on._  
 _Life may be fleeting, love lives on._

"You certainly did not make that ending easy," she quips. "It is really beautiful, though." Pressing her hands on this shoulders, she kisses the top of his head. "Oh, Erik, I do want to sing this."

"Your changes to the lyrics are perfect," he tells her. "There is another song – it is sung with the boy in the opera and would be a nice piece for you and Andre: _Look with Your Heart_." He hands her the music. "It is rather short, perhaps we can flush it out a bit more for Andre – to challenge his voice."

She returns to her seat on the bench and scans the song.

"Then there is this – a reprise of another aria that I…the Phantom sings at the beginning – longing for you. This particular lyric, though, is sung before you – Christine – go on the stage to, hopefully, perform the aria. This is to convince you to sing in order to win the bet – but primarily to hear you sing."

Erik plays and sings:

 _He knows his love is not enough.  
He knows he isn't what you need.  
He knows you're made of finer stuff.  
I think, on that, we're all agreed._

 _It's time to leave him in the dust._  
 _It's time to be who you should be._  
 _It's time to do now as you must,_  
 _And set the music in you free._

 _In moments, mere moments_  
 _Drums will roll._  
 _There you'll stand -_  
 _Just like before._

 _The crowd will hush_  
 _And then in one sweet rush_  
 _I will hear you sing once more._

 _And music, our music,_  
 _Will swell and then unwind._  
 _Like two strands of melody,_  
 _At last entwined._

 _Fulfill us, complete us._  
 _Make us whole._  
 _Seal our bond forever more._  
 _Tonight, for me,_  
 _Embrace your destiny -_  
 _Let me hear you sing_  
 _Once more!_

"I do not believe I would change that at all – you do not plan for it to be sung, though, do you?"

"No, it is just for you."

"I look forward to hearing the entire song and the rest of the score. You truly are brilliant, my husband, I could listen to you sing all day."

"And I you."

"Thank you for loving me so much to write all these songs, although your story…" She leans over to kiss him, her robe falling open exposing her breasts.

"Perhaps we could retire for a bit more sleep," Erik suggests, failing to disguise his leer.

"You? Sleep?"

"Um."

"A man of few words," She laughs. "Did you write a song about our making love?

He swings her up into his arms, carrying her back to the bedroom, singing softly,

 _Once there was a night beneath a moonless sky  
Too dark to see a thing, too dark to even try…_

"We were outside? I could not see you? You left me there outside alone?"

"It is a lovely song, though," he argues, continuing to sing:

 _And I touched you  
And I felt you  
And I heard those ravishing refrains  
The music of your pulse  
The singing in your veins._

She giggles, "Who says you cannot write lyrics?"

* * *

Adele closes the door sharply, just shy of a slam.

"Adele, what is the matter with you?" Nadir asks. "You were completely out of sorts tonight, snapping at Christine for no discernible reason."

"She was inserting herself into our conversation about the business of the Opera House," Adele counters. "It was rude." She pulls off her cape and throws it over a dining room chair, then unpins her bonnet, tossing it on the table along with her purse.

"My dearest woman, she was your charge and she is now the wife of your friend, who happens to be financing the Opera House," Nadir reminds her. Taking her chin in his hand, he tilts her head so that she will look at him. "You are a bit jealous, perhaps?"

The dark eyes flash as she pulls away from him. "Jealous of what?"

"Jealous that you are no longer the only woman in Erik's life. The woman he will turn to when he wants advice, or companionship or…candles?" Nadir laughs lightly. "You will always be his friend, Adele. That will never change. Do not ruin this with pettiness."

"I am not being petty. I am not a petty person – how dare you say that?" Her normally pale pallor flushes to pink in her indignity.

"I say that because I love you. The person you were tonight is beneath the woman you truly are."

"She…"

"Ah." He presses a finger to her pursed lips. "She what? Christine is Christine – sweet, generous, kind and madly in love with Erik – and he with her. I should think you would be happy for them."

Tears that she has been holding back flow down her cheeks. She pulls a handkerchief from her cuff and wipes her eyes and dabs at her nose. "It is just so different – neither of them needs me anymore."

He puts an arm around her and leads her to the sofa, sitting them both down. Pressing a kiss to her forehead, he unpins her braids, allowing them to fall over her shoulders to become the young girl who fell in love with the ballet as a child. Unclasping the hooks at the back of her dress, releases not only the stiffness of the dress, but the tension held in her shoulders.

"I, for one, am happy that Erik no longer needs me as he used to. The man was hell bent on destruction – it often did not matter whether it was his or someone else's. Now he can live what might be considered a normal life. The same with Christine – they are two free spirits – gifted orphans who have found another human being who understands and appreciates them."

Adele shifts her position so that Nadir is free to undo the rest of her dress. "The corset, please, I can hardly breathe – our dinner has quite pushed me to my maximum level of tolerance for fashion."

He accommodates her wish and she is soon clothed only in her chemise, drawers and one surprisingly lacy red petticoat. She picks up her clothing and takes them to her bedroom and returns wearing a red brocade dressing gown with matching slippers.

"Was I that awful?" she asks returning to her place on the sofa, tucking her knees under her, elbow resting on the back, head in hand.

"You were horrid," he jokes. "Fortunately, if they noticed, it had no effect. Erik was likely unaware and Christine has already forgiven you." Nadir has removed his hat, jacket, waistcoat and cravat. "Meg will not be coming home this evening?"

"No, she is with Monique," Adele responds. "They have quite bonded over Monique's experience with M. Robert. I am not certain if that is healthy, but it does not hurt for her to know more about some of the men who come to the theater. She is very much a little girl still. I wish I could make a kind, young man appear who will fall in love with her and marry her."

"Like Christine with the vicomte?"

"Yes, if you want the truth."

"Another reason you are annoyed with her?"

"Yes. More truth."

"She can no more help who she is than any of us. There is something other worldly about Christine that makes her, perhaps, more special than we ordinary folks. That is likely the reason she bonded with Erik – neither of them are truly of this earth."

He bends over to kiss her neck, nuzzling her with his nose, biting her ear lobe.

"Nadir…"

"Have you not had enough of being courted, keeping our distance? You allow me to undo your clothing, but I cannot kiss or hold you? Being with Erik and Christine tonight has made me wish for more than shaking hands with a kiss on the cheek at the end of an evening."

"I feel so foolish – at my behavior tonight – like a jealous schoolgirl."

"You have the opportunity now to redeem yourself as a lusty adult woman."

A rare laugh escapes her throat, she turns her head, leaning into him, welcoming his full lips on hers.

His tongue presses against her lips, opening them, pressing his body closer to her.

She issues a slight gasp, then brings him closer, shifting her position so that she lies across his lap. Exploring his mouth with her tongue, surprised at the strength of her longing. This is so different from Louis or Gustave. Passion at her age seems so strange… and frightening.

A loud pounding on the door interrupts them.

"Madame Giry. Madame Giry. Help. Please."

Grumbling, Nadir helps Adele sit up, then rises to run to the door, opening it to young Andre.

"Please…help," he gasps. The boy is out of breath, struggling to get air into his lungs. The coffee brown eyes are wide with fright.

"What is it, Andre?" Adele asks as she pulls her dressing gown around her.

"My maman…hurt." He tugs at Nadir's shirt. "Man…took…her."

"Where?" Nadir is putting his jacket on, then grabs his cloak and hat from the coat stand.

"Outside…Opera House...going home…brougham…man grabbed…threw her out."

"Stay here, Adele, let me see if I can find her."

"She…on…street," he sobs.

"I am glad that you came to me, Andre. Monsieur Khan will help you." Adele's eyes are wide, seeking assurance from the daroga.

"We shall see what happened." The boy and man rush down the hallway.

* * *

The Rue Scribe is quiet. Nadir and Andre run past the doorways of closed shops and gated houses.

"Why are you out so late?"

"Maman…finish cleaning main staircase. Wanted put on new clothes."

"New clothes?"

" _Veronique, if you have a moment, I have something to give you,"_ Adele told the cleaning woman.

" _A gift? For me?"_ Veronique rose from her work, wiped her hands on her skirt and stashed her cleaning rag in her bucket of supplies, then followed Adele to her office. _"Andre, come along."_

They arrived at the office, Adele opening the door giving entry to the little family.

" _Come in, please,"_ Adele held the door. She gathered up the blue dress and cloak and offered them to Veronique.

The woman's eyes grew large at the gift. She reached out to touch the clothing, then pulled her hand back, a questioning look on her face.

" _Yes, they are for you. Madame Christine thought they might look well on you."_

" _Oh. My. Thank you,"_ she whispered. _"Look, Andre,"_ she says, holding the dress against her.

" _You look beautiful,"_ the boy said. " _Like an angel."_

" _Well, they are yours. Enjoy them,"_ Adele confirmed.

" _Thank you again,"_ Veronique and Andre leave the office.

Agnes, a buxom blonde with a smiling face, always full of humor despite any hardship, and Suzette, tall and thin, with a spattering of freckles on her checks, a perpetual frown belying a gentle demeanor, met them in the corridor.

" _What have you there?"_ Agnes asked.

" _Madame Christine gave them to me."_ Recalling the events occurring earlier, she told the women about Andre receiving singing lessons and how all of them were going to move.

Wary of Veronique's news, Agnes snorted, " _We shall see how that promise goes, but I am happy for you having a new outfit."_ Knotted fingers caressed the cloak. _"Wonder if she has something that would fit me,"_ she joked, strutting in a circle, hand on hip, her back arched emphasizing her abundant figure.

" _The dress suits your coloring,"_ Suzette declared, the downturned mouth now a shy smile.

" _Can you wait while I put it on?"_

The two women exchanged a look. Suzette gave a small nod, but Agnes overrode her. " _It is so late already, the work was hard today and we really wanted to go home and eat. Would you mind if we went on ahead?"_

Her face fell, but Veronique understood their fatigue, it lay heavy on her own body. _"That is fine, Andre is with me, so I will not be alone,"_ Veronique replied. _"Go home and get some rest."_

* * *

"Was the brougham waiting outside or moving?"

"Outside – parked."

"There was a driver?"

Andre nods. "It was the man inside...he grabbed Maman."

* * *

" _Andre, do not run ahead, stay close to me."_

Veronique was aware of a carriage parked just ahead of them. Normally something like this would not concern her, but leaving the Opera House later than usual, and without her friends, made her wary. She began to regret her desire to wear the new clothing and the extra time it took for her to change her clothes.

" _Madame,"_ a man's voice called out. _"Can I offer you a ride?"_

" _Non, monsieur,"_ she replied _. "We are fine with our walk, merci."_

" _But the evening is becoming chill."_

" _Again, non, monsieur."_ She increased her pace. Did he think she was selling herself? Where was Andre? _"Andre, where are you? Please stay close to me."_

" _Coming."_ The boy had run ahead, but turned back at the sound of his mother's voice laced with fear.

The man stepped out, stopping in front of her. In her fright, he seemed a giant – too tall, too large entirely, to be real – the bottom of his face was veiled, only his eyes visible _. "I understand that you like men who wear masks. This poor rag was the best I could do."_ In a swift movement toward her, he lifted her into the cab before she could fight.

" _Andre. Andre."_

The boy ran after them, but his young legs were no match for the horse. _"Maman."_

" _Monsieur, I do not know what you want. I do not sell myself. My son is on the street alone. Please, allow me to go,"_ Veronique pled. The air was heavy with the odor of whiskey and tobacco. The man's clothing was elegant and expensive, but his voice coarse, burned from smoking.

" _What son?"_ he growled.

" _My son. Andre. Please we work at the Opera House."_

The man grabbed the edge of her hood, pulling it away from her face. _"Damn you. Who are you?"_

" _Veronique Dupree."_ Before she could move, his huge gloved hand struck her across the face. The blow knocked her off the seat. Putting up her arm up to block any more blows, she cries, _"Please, do not hurt me. What do you want?"_

" _Not you, thief, nothing from you – get out, get out!"_ he screamed. _"Stop. Stop,"_ he shouts to the coachman.

The carriage came to an abrupt stop – without courtesy, the door is opened, kicking Veronique on the hip, she was pushed into the street. The force of the fall was broken by her clothing, nevertheless her forehead still hit the cement walk, leaving her momentarily senseless.

The vehicle disappeared from sight.

* * *

"Could she speak?"

"No. Could only think…Madame."

"Good thinking." He stops, gathering his bearings and his breath – he sees something – someone lying near the curb. "There she is."

They increase their pace and find Veronique, attempting to lift herself up. Her black hair is tousled, the normally pale face is red from the assault of the slap and abrasions from hitting the sidewalk. Blood flows from a cut to her brow. A small hand is pressed against her side. The blue cloak and dress are dirtied from the street, but seem to have suffered no major damage.

Nadir wonders why he is so concerned about the dress, but it is precious to the woman – enough to have her walking home alone, albeit with her young son, but without the safety of her friends. There is also something vaguely familiar about the outfit.

He stoops down to assist the fragile young woman. A handkerchief, pulled from his pocket is applied to the bleeding wound, she holds it in place.

"Here, let me help you," he says, putting his arms around her. "I am Nadir Khan, a friend of Madame Giry and help with the security at the Opera House. It would seem that we need to provide more based on this."

"Thank you, monsieur. Andre, you are the best boy." She reaches an arm out to her son, who rushes to her side.

"Are you all right, Maman?"

"Mostly shaken, I think."

"What happened?"

She relates her experience.

"Can you stand?"

She nods. With his Nadir's help, she rises to her feet.

He lifts her into his arms. "A friend lives nearby – closer than going back to Madame's." He surveilles the street. "I do not see any carriages, but it is not far."

* * *

The alarm rings three times.

Erik roused from his doze, jumps out of bed and pulls on his drawers and pants that lay on the vanity bench, and grabs a shirt from the armoire.

Disturbed by his movement, Christine wakens and sits up. Seeing his activity, follows his lead – scooping the satin dressing gown from the foot of the bed. "Who do you suppose it is?"

"Nadir. No one else would have the audacity to come calling at this time of night without good reason." Eyeing her wrapper, he comments, "Perhaps another garment, my dear."

Christine looks down at the clingy satin robe and blushes. "Yes, that would be wise."

Padding barefoot to the sitting room, Erik grabs his mask from the sideboard and goes through the kitchen to the Rue Scribe entrance.

Erik follows Nadir and Andre into the parlor, where Nadir sets Veronique down next to the settee. He helps remove the young woman's cloak, hanging it over a dining room chair.

"Best if you sit so that I can examine your injuries," Erik tells her.

He returns to the kitchen to get his emergency kit as Christine enters from the bedroom, clothed in her modest blue cambric day dress. "My word, Mme. Dupree, what happened?" she cries. "Andre, are you all right?" She rushes to the couch to smooth the young mother's hair from her face, she removes the handkerchief. "You are bleeding." To Nadir. "What happened?"

"Let us wait for Erik," he says. "Andre, please sit down, young man. Everyone is safe now."

The boy sits in one of the armchairs, his hands clasped and tucked between his knees, observing the activities of the adults.

Erik returns to the sitting room with the kit and addresses Veronique's facial injuries. "You need a stitch or two. May I?" He shows her a needle and thread.

"I do not want to put you to any trouble," she replies. "You have done so much for us already."

"You need the stitches and some medical care – I am well equipped to provide both, I only want permission to touch you."

"Of course, I am sorry," she says. "I am still shaken."

"Christine, some of the willow mixture."

"Of course." She goes to the kitchen, returning with a cup holding the tincture and honey. "It tastes ghastly, but will assuage your pain," she assures Veronique.

Nadir relates the details of the attack.

"He wore a mask?" Erik asks.

"It covered the lower part of his face," Veronique responds. "He said he thought I liked men with masks. He called me a thief."

Christine's eyes find Erik's – they are full of concern. "The dress and cloak – he thought it was me?"

"Raoul!" Erik exclaims, his eyes burst with flaming amber light. Were he not tending to Veronique, he might have run off at that moment to track down the Vicomte.

"Hold on, Erik," Nadir says, his voice calm and thoughtful. "He would have to be insane to try something again. Besides why a mask? This person was unfamiliar with Christine's life – Raoul knows she would not be at the Opera House late at night – alone."

"Then someone who recognized the dress," Christine offers. "I wore that dress to the performance of Don Juan. I actually wore it quite often to rehearsal."

"So someone who would see you at the Opera House?"

"Did not Meg tell us that M. Robert mentioned an interest in Christine?

"Yes, but I told him to stay away from her," Erik recalls.

"Thus, the comment about the mask," Nadir says.

"Is Meg at home?" Christine asks.

"No. Adele said she was with Monique."

"Perhaps, I best be getting back to Adele," Nadir says. "I cannot imagine the fool making another move tonight, but I would feel better if she was not alone."

Veronique follows the conversation with her eyes, then clears her throat. "I do not mean to interrupt, but Andre and I…"

"You can stay here, tonight – we have a spare room," Christine offers.

Erik's eyes grow wide; he gives a small shake of his head.

"You can use the small bedroom," she insists, glaring at Erik.

"We cannot stay. My friends will be concerned," Veronique argues.

"Well, they can just wonder, hmm?" Erik snorts. "They were not terribly concerned about your walking alone tonight, were they? In any case, you were attacked once, did you wish to put yourself in danger again?"

"No, I suppose not," she agrees both unable and unwilling to argue. Her body slumps in surrender to exhaustion and Erik's will.

"Then it is settled, you will stay here," Erik declares. The thought crosses his mind that he has somehow been hoodwinked by his adorable wife yet again.

Nadir takes the opportunity to leave. "Thank you. I will return in the morning to take Mme. Dupree and Andre to their quarters."

Christine chimes in, "I'll just freshen the room for you and lay out some nightwear. Erik, perhaps you could fit Andre with one of your shirts."

Erik is speechless as he realizes the he has lost complete control of the situation. He looks at the angel that has turned his life upside down. Never, since the time he chose to live in the cellar of the Opera House did he conceive that he would be blessed with a wife, who warmed this dungeon with the sunshine she carried with her, but that he would be entertaining overnight guests. Having Christine here during the time he was teaching her was odd enough. This was beyond his imagination – at least the imagination he used to have.

"I have something better." Finishing his ministrations to Veronique, he takes the medicine kit back to the kitchen, then goes to the room that was once his solitary den.

Christine's eyes follow him.

His return has him carrying some folded garments with a pair of shoes on top of the stack. He hands the clothing to Andre. "I believe these should take care of your needs for the moment – the pants might be a trifle long, but you can roll the cuffs.

Christine wrinkles her brow, her head tips in a question.

Addressing her, he explains, "The furniture I brought from my mother's home included a cedar chest filled with boys clothing. I suspect Andre will find enough garments within to suit his future needs."

Tears brighten her eyes, she swallows hard, smiling at him.

Andre examines the garments given to him, stroking each piece – all look newly made. "Monsieur, you are too kind." His eyes bright with gratitude.

Veronique smiles at her son, the looks at Erik. "Thank you, monsieur."

"Clothing should be worn, food eaten, music played – life must be lived," Erik tells them – and himself. "Now you two need to have some dinner. Then to bed."

* * *

 **A/N – All musical credit to ALW and Simon Lee. I couldn't resist pursuing the LND theme a bit longer – simply because of the music (which I do like) and it fell in with the story I am telling. Since I can neither write lyrics nor music, best to go to the source. I did keep the original London storyline – no threat of kidnappi**


	19. Anticipation

ANTICIPATION

Christine's single most desire at the moment is to meld with Erik – creating a new entity. Were she able to hold him tighter, or kiss him more deeply, she would. Their lovemaking on this night is different, borne from a deep fear – the events suffered by Veronique, the threat actually targeting her own life was unfathomable. Two men wishing her harm – one a stranger – why?

Raoul's despair she almost understood – almost. Why would you want to kill someone you love? How selfish that was. She loved him and wanted him to be happy because of that love. That she could not love him as she once thought or, even as she once had, was fate. Nothing could have told her of how bonded she would become to the man who holds her now.

This other man – M. Robert? Who was he? Had she ever seen him? Probably – she could not be certain. Meg was afraid of him and he had beaten Monique. Were there others? Why did he want her? Not to kill perhaps, but what was rape, but the murder of a woman's soul?

A small gasp escapes her throat, Erik tightens his embrace. They lie in silence after their intense coupling. Erik was concerned because of the presence of Veronique and young Andre in the other bedroom, but Christine needed him desperately. Needed to have the closeness, the oneness that only their special love could give her.

This dark, heavily draped room provides the perfect setting for their passion on this night. Rich velvets – mostly black, as was Erik's wont, but reds and golds adding richness. This bedroom welcomed the gravity of their lovemaking – enhancing it. This room she could hide in and feel safe in. Safe with someone who knows the darkness, helping her navigate this new threat.

"Are you all right?" Erik breathes softly into her hair. His long fingers brush the curls from her face and wipe a few random tears from her cheeks.

"So long as you are with me," she responds, taking that hand, pressing it to her lips. "I was unaware of the significance of Veronique's story until we were alone."

"Yes, I know. You were taking care of her, my beautiful dear," Erik kisses her forehead. He is careful not to move his body, no effort made to separate from her. They lie facing one another, her legs wrapped around his waist locking his hips to hers.

"Why?" she cries.

"You are a precious jewel, desired for your beauty and rarity and purity," he whispers. "But, you are under my protection and you know how I fight and I know how you fight."

"I love you," she says.

"And I you. With all my being. If it is this man, he will be dealt with. We have to be certain, however, that it is he," he advises. "Nadir and I will investigate. In the meantime, you…and Meg must be protected."

Comforted, she is able to settle back onto her pillow, releasing him. Erik tucks the comforter close, burying his head in the crook of her neck, kissing her gently. "Try to get some rest."

"Where are you going?" The tension returns.

"Nowhere. I am here." He croons the Swedish lullaby she taught him, until her eyelids become heavy.

"Erik?"

"Yes, my love."

" . ," she murmurs snuggling close – surrendering to sleep.

Erik lies back, honey-colored eyes staring at the black velvet draped over the heavy mahogany four-poster. Christine's words linger in the air. "Happy. Lullaby. What? Oh." The words sooth him as the song calmed her. Sleep comes – a rare gift, the barest of smiles gracing his lips.

* * *

"This is not how I intended our initial-uh-merging to come about, but I am grateful for your understanding – I fear my temper got the best of me over tonight's events. I was careless of your needs," Nadir says formally as he pulls away from Adele, lying on his side and tugging on one of her braids. Adjusting his body to press against her hip, his lips brush her shoulder.

"Nor did I, our evening did start out a bit more…tantalizing," Adele admits. "However, it was satisfying and I suspect our future mergers will be even more successful." Had anyone been eavesdropping, she might have been discussing produce prices with the greengrocer.

Nadir throws his head back in a guffaw. "You would think we had just completed a business deal instead of making love," Nadir admits. "Yet, we have never been romantic with one another, have we?"

"No," she agrees, "that is true. You are my friend and companion – this is actually quite strange and, frankly, awkward." She rises up on her elbow so that she can see his face. "What I will say, however, is this has been very special for me. Perhaps the friendship makes this more significant than my other relationships." She falls back to her pillow, blushing fiercely at revealing herself so thoroughly. "Louis was an early love, but we lost that spark over the years. Gustave was a convenience – for both of us."

"My wife was the most beautiful woman I had even known. It was an arranged marriage, but when I met her, I knew that Allah was definitely involved in the arrangement," he laughs. "I never wanted the other three wives I might have taken in our faith. Nor did I wish to marry again after her death."

"So you became a bachelor again?"

"In a manner of speaking. Dalliances here and there; I was not celibate. My son was ill, as you know, and it was at that time I met Erik. He took the place of family for me. Why I do not know, he just did – we have a curious alliance. He became a son in my heart. Another of Allah's gifts!"

"But you were apart for many years."

"He never left my mind. Erik has that quality, as you well know," the sarcasm ripe in his voice. "I suspect he filled a void in you that was not provided by your other loves."

"What are you…you and Erik going to do about this threat to Christine?" Adele asks.

"Christine _and_ Meg and who know who else," he reminds her. "I fear that this man is a true predator – that Monique was not his first victim and that Meg and Christine are merely his most recent objects of desire."

"I have been thinking a lot about that," Adele confides. "His patronage initiated when the Opera House re-opened. I never paid much attention to the patrons as individuals, to be honest. The managers approved the men – which generally meant they had money – that appeared to be the only prerequisite for access to the backstage. That element of my job never appealed to me, so I tended to detach from the goings on. Perhaps it would have been better had I kept track."

"What do you mean?"

"Girls would come and go. Some would still dance even if they had patrons – like Sorelli. Some would return if the relationship failed, but others often left and we never saw them again."

"Did the men return?"

"That is the part that I regret I did not keep track of. The managers might be more knowledgeable about the men. As for the girls, once they were gone, they were gone. If they came back and could still dance, I would try to fit them into the troupe. Otherwise, we attempted to find other work – such as cleaning – for them."

"I see."

"I will create a list from our pay records – try to create a time line. Some sort of register of the patrons as well."

"The sooner the better, I would say," he suggests. "He has been without for a while since Monique returned. Somehow I do not see him soliciting the services of prostitutes. Youth and purity are what attract him. That is possibly why he took the chance last night in kidnapping Veronique. We should be grateful that he did not decide to keep her. She told us he was revolted when she mentioned having a son. It was more than simply the fact that she was not Christine."

Adele shivers. "What about the police?"

Nadir puts his arm around her, pulling her close. "Erik and I will take care of this. No point in involving the police right now because we have nothing to tell them."

"Oh, God, Nadir, I am so sorry," Adele cries.

"You could not know. The world is not a friendly place for pretty young girls who are poor, their only means of survival their bodies – be it dancing or as mistress."

"Still…"

"It is the past, you cannot change that. We have all done things we are not proud of," he admits.

"You?" she says in amazement. "You are the most honorable of men."

"One does not become a daroga in Persia by being a nice person. It was my job to kill Erik, not to set him free," he advises. "We are both fortunate that our charade was believed. He was free and all I lost was my estate."

"You would have been killed?"

"Most certainly, _and_ the shah was not one for quick deaths."

"And Erik created some of these executions?" Adele ventures.

"Yes." Nadir affirms, closing his eyes to erase the memories that still haunt him. Part of his connection to Erik are those memories. His advantage was he merely had to watch – like a terrible performance, he could still walk away in some manner. "Persia is far in the past, although I know he still has nightmares, as do I," he sighs deeply. "Hopefully, the love we now both have in our lives will bring happy dreams."

"Love?" Adele asks, unsure if she heard correctly. The color rising on her face again. It had been a long time since she felt such heat, not only on her face, but pulsing through her body.

"Does that surprise you?"

"In a way, yes, I suppose it does," She shakes her head.

"Do you not feel loveable?"

Her dark eyes search his. "I feel naked in front of you – not just a lack of clothing, but my heart. I am the fierce Madame Giry who keeps everyone in line, who rules the Opera House with her stick, who is feared. With you, I am a young girl again and that frightens me."

"My dearest, Adele, do not fear me, just be," he leans over to kiss her, his gentle breath teasing her before touching her lips gently with his.

Years of pent up desire and frustration drive her kiss, so long undesired seeking succor in this man's sweetness and offer of love. Their earlier joining forgotten, this is new for both of them. Voicing the word love, initiating a true commitment.

Gliding his hand slowly down her body – stroking the small breasts, little more than nipples, once deemed perfect for a ballerina, so as not to ruin her lines; pausing for a moment on a stomach still muscular, admiring the definition; to her mound of Venus – graying curls not so thick as they were in youth; stopping short of her private place, still tight, as their earlier intercourse informed him – he asks, "May I love you now as you deserve?"

"Yes," she whispers, her body ready, having waited a lifetime for this moment. For him.

* * *

Andre bursts from the bedroom, fully dressed in his new trousers, shirt, vest, stockings, shoes and cap, having lain in wait at the door until he heard movement in the sitting room. His excitement is more than he can bear – senses heightened so even Erik's near silent movement from his bedroom to the kitchen was heard.

Only vaguely startled, Erik – always very aware of his environment, felt of the boy's energy, even through the heavy wooden door – stops his trek to observe the ebullient child. "Bonjour, M. Dupree."

"Bonjour, M. Erik," Andre smiles his response. He opens his arms wide and turns a full circle to display his new clothes. "Everything fits!" he exclaims, " _And_ I am clean. I took a bath and it was wonderful – although the water became very dirty." He runs to Erik and grabs him around the waist. "Thank you, monsieur."

Erik stiffens at the embrace, drawing his body up and away from the boy, his fingers fold into his hands. "Yes, well, I am certainly happy that you now have some nice clothing."

Christine, having exited the bedroom not far behind Erik, observes the exchange and smiles. As she walks toward them with an almost imperceptible limp, she remarks, "Andre, you look most handsome and you smell like a garden of beautiful flowers." Wrapping her arms around both of them, she feels Erik relax, and returns the boy's hug, assuring he is unaware of Erik's reflexive response to a stranger's touch. Keeping her hand on Andre's back, she allows Erik to remove himself.

"Are you preparing us breakfast, my love?"

"Yes, that was my intention," he replies, recapturing his composure. "Andre, do you like omelets?"

The boy's eyes grow wide. "What is an omelet, monsieur?"

Christine quirks an eyebrow at Erik.

"An omelet is eggs mixed with a bit of milk and…here, come, I will show you," Erik invites Andre to join him. "I will teach you to both how to sing and cook, possibly doing both at the same time." The boy follows him into the kitchen, his joy so contagious that Erik cannot help but smile yet feel a contrary twinge of envy.

Veronique enters the parlor, dressed again in the blue dress, the sight of her son, so filled with happiness, softens the sorrow shrouding her.

"Oh, Mme. Dupree, I thought you might wish to wear something different – I left the brown and green dress out for you to try," Christine tells her.

"Madame, you have already done too much – the new undergarments and nightgown – the clothing for Andre…" Tears fill her eyes. "I am sorry to cry."

Christine walks to her and leads her to the settee. "Please sit down." She pulls a handkerchief from her pocket and hands it to the woman, observing her wound and her right eye, now blackened from her fall. "We need to put some more arnica on that bruise to help it heal. How is your pain?"

"Not terrible," she smiles. "I also have a bruise on my hip, perhaps the medication would help with that as well."

"Of course," Christine replies, "I cannot tell you how sorry I am that you were injured because of me."

"My mother always told me there was a reason for things happening. To look at the bright side when things were completely awful. There might be ultimate good to follow. I have had much practice with that in recent years." Veronique's smile is grim. "Not to complain. When Jacques was killed, Agnes and Suzette took us in – much to their inconvenience. We are four in a very small space, but they never complain. My son is a treasure and works so very hard to help compensate them. Then your husband offers to teach him to sing and we get new clothes and, well, it is very difficult to be angry with anyone other than the brute who attacked me."

"Nevertheless…" Christine stands up. "Let me get you some tea…and that arnica. Erik is teaching Andre how to make omelets – this should be interesting."

* * *

Veronique's medical needs attended to, the foursome finish their eggs, bread and jam. Content in being entertained by Andre's chatter about his clothes and cooking and the people he sees running his errands, the period of levity allows the adults to get their bearings, putting aside decisions as to what will happen next for the little family.

The alarm sounds, two short rings.

"Ah, Nadir being polite," Erik announces. He gets up to let the daroga in.

"Good morning, everyone," Nadir greets everyone with boisterous good cheer.

"Someone had a good night," Erik remarks, raising his eyebrow – a smirk tilting his lips. "I wondered at your desire to leave so abruptly."

"Life is good. It is a beautiful day. We are surrounded by good friends – what is there to not be happy about?" Nadir argues.

"Agreed," chimes in Christine, "however, we do need to address Mme. Dupree's situation." To Andre: "Perhaps you would like to practice on the piano, I seem to remember you have a very good ear. Play something for us, would you?"

Andre was no different from any other man of any age, he had fallen completely in love with Christine and would do her bidding, whatever that might be. He happily leaves the adults to their talk, to play some of the songs he has memorized.

"Adele has an apartment in her building that would be totally suitable for Madame and Andre," Nadir says. "I believe she spoke of it to you. It is the attic – two bedrooms with a small kitchen/sitting room _and_ bathroom."

"But it would not be enough for four people," Veronique says. "I do not mean to sound ungrateful, but I thought we would also help Agnes and Suzette."

Erik demurs, "They were only too willing to leave you alone last night…"

"They took me in when my husband died. Our printing business burned in the siege, Jacques was killed trying to remove our property. Andre and I had nothing. Nothing." Her back is stiff with pride and her voice hard with determination.

Christine raises her eyebrows at Erik – taking his measure.

He nods. "That counts for something, I suppose," he harrumphs. "What are you paying them?

She gives him the amount.

Erik and Nadir are astonished at the amount.

"Wha…?"

"Well," Nadir says, holding up his hand to deflect Erik's almost certain scolding, "I think we can work out something with them that would be agreeable."

Erik defers to Nadir's intercession and suggests, "Perhaps you could accompany Mme. Dupree to her lodgings to pick up hers and Andre's things, _and_ make a suitable financial arrangement with the good ladies."

"But…" Veronique protests.

"Mme. Dupree, I believe that your friends will be satisfied with any arrangement made. They have been in their flat for a time now, and it will seem quite large once they have it to themselves again. Although I am certain you and Andre will be missed for your sweet company," Christine interjects. Her eyes search Veronique's and she sees the recognition in them of the situation.

"They have been stealing from me." It is not a question. The realization is clear in her defeated tone.

"I am afraid so," Christine sighs. "Still, you had a place to stay when it was needed. That time has passed. Remember your mother's words." She pats the woman on her folded hands, giving them a brief squeeze of encouragement.

Veronique bows her head in acquiescence.

"Have you finished with your meal, Madame?" Nadir asks. "If so, let us depart. This is your half-day, correct – so they will be at home."

"Yes, thank you." Her eyes drift to the boy studiously working the keyboard of the piano, trying find the notes of a melody none of them recognizes.

"Andre will be fine here," Erik assures her. "We can have our first lesson. From the sound of things, he will be learning piano as well."

"He plays a bit of violin," Veronique comments with pride. "His father played, but the violin burned in the fire."

Christine's face blossoms, "My father played. Andre can use his violin." She looks to Erik for agreement.

He nods. "Violin, piano, voice – he will learn them all. He may also become an expert with omelets."

"From a great teacher," Christine observes.

"Are we done with the plaudits?" Nadir grouses.

"Yes," Erik responds. "Go. Do not be overly generous."

"I will do you proud."

Nadir's sardonic tone does not elude Erik, who laughs. "I have no doubt, daroga."

* * *

Nadir returns alone, having delivered Veronique and her belongings to Adele's that she might inspect her new flat and begin to get settled.

"It went well?" Erik inquires, walking him through the tunnels.

"Not badly," Nadir responds. "They were truly mortified about the attack – were actually concerned and somewhat penitent – I played it up a bit, but the truth is, Madame Dupree could have been badly harmed. In any event, it made them less mercenary, I believe. I gave them each one hundred francs up front with an additional 25 percent of what she was paying them each month – generous by any standard – that will be added to their pay from the Opera House. The contingency being that they say nothing about her or Andre or any agreement with me. They, or rather Agnes, the blonde, understood the terms. Suzette is just another pawn to her, I suspect. Perhaps she will wise up and move out now that she is aware of Agnes' true level of friendship and has some funds to work with."

The sound of Christine and Andre singing greets the men as they enter the kitchen.

ANDRE:  
 _Look with your heart  
And not with your eyes  
The heart can't be fooled_

CHRISTINE:  
 _The heart is too wise.  
_  
ANDRE:  
 _Forget what you think_

CHRISTINE:  
 _Ignore what you hear  
_  
ANDRE/CHRISTINE:  
 _Look with your heart,  
It always sees clear.  
_  
ANDRE:  
 _Love is not always beautiful  
Not at the start.  
_  
CHRISTINE:  
 _But open your arms  
And close your eyes tight,  
Look with your heart  
And when it finds love  
Your heart will be right._

"What a sweet song, Erik, the boy is quite good. Christine, as always, is magnificent. Did you write this?"

"Yes."

"A new opera?"

"No longer."

"Why?"

"Christine is not fond of the story."

"What did you do?" Nadir mocks him.

"I killed her off," Erik mumbles. "It was written before…before we…before we – well, you know…"

"Raoul?"

"A drunken, gambler."

"You are a piece of work," Nadir laughs. "The boy? Wait, I know – your child with Christine under some bizarre set of circumstances?"

"Yes," Erik hisses.

Nadir shakes his head. "I understand her objections without knowing anything more." Entering the sitting room, he exclaims, "Brava, bravo – your singing is wonderful."

"Nadir!" Christine sits at the piano with Andre. "All is well?"

"Maman?" Andre asks.

"She is at your new home," Nadir answers." I will take you there soon. I need to speak with M. Erik for a moment first."

"Let us get together some of the clothing to take with you. We will not be able to empty the entire trunk, but it will be nice to have a few things for yourself and your mother."

"Oh, yes, thank you."

He and Christine leave the room to Erik and Nadir.

"Tea?"

"Yes, I think that would be welcome – get the bad taste out of my mouth."

"That bad?" He pours him a cup of tea from the pot on the table, pushing it toward him as they sit down.

"The place was a hovel. I feel for Suzette, but she made her choice last night, the way I see it. Perhaps she learned something today and will look for other _friends,_ " he snorts. "It turns out that Mme. Dupree is educated in business. They, she and her husband, owned a printing shop – he was the printer, she, the manager. I spoke to Adele about it and she is going to have her assist with putting together the lists of patrons and ballet rats. It would be difficult for her to go back to cleaning right now, in any event."

"That is excellent news. I know Christine will be pleased, she is feeling profound guilt about the attack."

"Yes, the attack," Nadir agrees. "While Adele and Veronique are examining pay records, we need to begin interviewing the dancers. I am happy that you have become a legitimate person with those at the Opera House."

"This might be the time to call upon the Comte de Chagny for assistance with identifying the patrons, particularly our chief suspect," Erik says. "I shall write him for a meeting. It is too bad that our best messenger is taking the day off."

"Here we are," Christine announces, dragging a flour sack that Erik presumes is filled with clothing. Andre follows her with another sack, equally filled. "There are some other items on the bed – linens, towels – I found some that I had not monogrammed – toiletries. Perhaps we have some paper bags?" she suggests. "Also, we need to pack some foodstuffs – bread, cheese, honey, tea – those can go into shopping baskets."

"I am happy I instructed our driver to wait," Nadir remarks, rising to take Andre's sack from him. The boy returns to the bedroom to gather what Nadir assumes to be another load.

Erik jumps up to take the bag Christine carries. "Please do not strain yourself. Your foot is finally healing and…" nodding to her abdomen, which, to his keen eyes looks much the same as it always has – he is certain he would notice any changes, but…. He tilts his head questioning her.

Frowning, she looks down to her stomach, and returns his look. "What?"

With a side-eye to Nadir before leaning forward, in a low guttural tone, he whispers, "Lullaby."

Her green eyes widen. "Oh, yes, well. I said that? Out loud?"

Nadir politely turns his back on the couple, to lug the sacks to the kitchen.

"You did."

"Um."

"Now you are adopting _um_ to answer challenging questions?" Erik snorts.

"I was dreaming, or thought I was dreaming," she admits, "It was a sense I had. A spark of awareness. I am not certain. I simply _feel_ different." Her look is both wistful and penitent. "Are you angry?"

"Angry?" He pulls her into an embrace and kisses the top of her head. "Not at all. Curious, concerned, anxious for you and amazingly happy at the possibility, but hardly angry."

"Truly?" she asks, stroking his cheek.

"Did I not just say so?"

"We must wait a bit longer, but my heart tells me it is so."

They break apart as Andre re-enters the room with yet another bag of household goods. "Madame Christine, this is the last of the items you packed," he announces.

"That is wonderful, Andre," she tells him. "Check to be certain you have left nothing behind in the other bedroom." Giving Erik a peck on the lips, she tells him, "We shall speak later. Now, finish with the packing, so that Andre can go to his new home."

"Nadir," he calls out to the daroga, withdrawing to the kitchen, "let us satisfy my wife's directives."

"You may find yourself relieved of all your possessions by the time she has finished providing for the Duprees," Nadir jokes.

"Quite possibly so," Erik agrees. "I never imagined that I could be happy willingly turning my life over to a beautiful woman – or any woman, or any human being, for that matter," Erik muses. "I have been a prisoner of some sort for most of my life – the last years were of my own doing, I will admit, becoming my own jailer. Amazing the habits we acquire without our realizing."

"But you are happy now?" Nadir asks.

"Yes. And, surprisingly, I have never felt so free," he says simply. "Not that _you_ can tell," he sniggers recovering himself, remembering who he is with. The larder is opened and he removes eggs, cheese, jars of jam and honey, placing them in a basket.

"I can tell, my friend – I can tell." Raising his hand to pat Erik on the shoulder, he rethinks the movement and begins packing another basket with a loaf of bread, apples and some macarons that sit on the counter.

"Oh, and some crockery and flatware and a tea kettle if we have a spare – or give them ours, we can buy another," Christine calls from the sitting room.

Nadir raises an eyebrow. "Mark my words."

"A small price," Erik retorts. To Christine: "As you wish, my dear."

* * *

 **A/N – Margaret Knight invented the machine (patented in 1871) that gave the world the flat-bottomed paper bag that we still use today. The song "Look With Your Heart" from LND - Andrew Lloyd Webber and Glenn Evan Slater.**


	20. Protection

PROTECTION

"Nadir could have handled this himself," Erik mutters, dismissing the hansom outside of Adele's apartment building. As he and Christine adjust their clothing from the ride, the private coach carrying Nadir, Andre and the belongings being transferred from the cellar apartment to the new Dupree lodgings, pulls up next them.

With furtive glances up and down the street to see if anyone is watching, Erik adjusts his gambler's hat to fall even lower over the mask side of his face.

"No one is looking at you, darling," Christine assures him, calling his attention with a nod of her head to a young couple passing by, completely lost in one another. "See? Your actions to avoid being seen are what make people pay attention."

Erik gives her a side eye. "Hmmph."

Nadir opens the door of the coach and Andre jumps down. "Erik, help me with the baggage."

Erik groans and walks to the carriage and takes the bags and baskets that Nadir hands him, placing them on the sidewalk.

Christine tries to help, but Erik waves her back. "You are not carrying anything, my dear." To Andre, "Can you handle a basket?"

"Yes, monsieur," he replies, grabbing the larger of the two. "I can carry this."

"Take it upstairs then, to Madame Giry's. Christine, perhaps you should go along to let them know what we are doing."

"I can carry the small basket," she insists, bending over to pick it up. "I am not an invalid, Erik."

"Very well, we can manage the sacks."

"Return in an hour," Nadir tells the driver, looking Erik for acquiescence, who nods. "Well, this has turned out to be quite an event."

"If you say so," Erik says.

"I see you have regained your sour mood," Nadir asks. "Seriously, you do not feel unwell, do you?" His thick black brows furrow.

"No, although I am beginning to understand the need to live above ground – as bad as the smell is at times, the air does feel less heavy. As for this particular moment, I simply feel overwhelmed," Erik admits. "Too many years alone and a bit too much company in recent days. We are both aware that I am not a normal human being and am not adept at social intercourse."

"And it _is_ daylight." Nadir chuckles.

"And it _is_ daylight," he concedes, issuing a deep sigh. "Let us get these things upstairs and help our new friends get settled."

"So you can leave?"

"So I can leave."

"You have changed immeasurably – the old Erik would have gone storming off before we even left your house."

"We all have choices and I made mine," Erik says. "Ironically, that is what I ordered Christine to do – when I brought her to the music room and Raoul followed – _make your choice._ Well, she did and here I am moving strangers into an apartment that I am paying for and, if not enjoying the experience – still behaving rationally. Quite amazing, all things considered."

"So, why then so out-of-sorts?"

"Concern about this Robert fellow and his interest in Christine," Erik says. "He was aware that she was betrothed, yet he still made an attempt to kidnap her. I cannot help but think that it relates as much to me as a desire to possess her." He stops to catch his breath and get a new grip on the baggage.

"A vendetta?" Nadir suggests, rubbing his chin. "Could very well be – setting up the security surrounding the dancers?"

"Perhaps. Once we gather more information, we shall know more of this man," he says. "In the meantime, we had best get these sacks upstairs before they think _we_ have been kidnapped."

* * *

Meg rushes to the door to greet her friend. "Oh, Christine, I have missed you so. Are you all right? I have been so worried."

Christine hugs her friend, "I am mostly wonderful, but this silly ankle has kept me housebound – not that I mind the company I keep."

The women giggle.

"You look beautiful and happy."

"Thank you and, yes, I am very happy." Holding out the basket, she asks, "Where are the goods to be taken for Mme. Dupree and Andre?"

"Maman is upstairs with Madame. Monique and I wanted to wait for Andre and Nadir to come back with the clothing and other items that I knew you would provide.

"Monique is here?"

"Yes, Chris…Mme. Saint-Rein…" Monique answers, stepping from behind Meg. Rust colored hair is clipped short into a thick cap framing a pale face – narrow and plain, dotted with freckles and fading bruises. Pale blue eyes bearing no light, dark circles under them, suggest a lack of sleep and sorrowful dreams. A lithe dancer's body, taller than both Meg and Christine, with her hair cropped as it is, she could easily be mistaken for a young boy.

"I am and always will be Christine to you and everyone at the Opera," she opens her arms to the girl. "I am so sorry for what happened to you."

"Veronique told us of her attack – and that it appeared that the bastard…" Eyeing Andres, she apologizes. "I'm sorry…that M. Robert intended for you to be his next victim"

"We believe that to be so," Christine tells her. "My husband and Nadir will be investigating to have him brought to justice."

"Maman told us all of this," Meg interjects excitedly. "Did you notice our door?"

"What about it?" Christine examines the heavy wooden door. "Oh, this is the door that Erik told me about. He invents the most amazing doors from stone and metal – now wood, all with trick locks. I see there is a little window, is that where the special device is located?"

"No, the window has a latch so you can open it to see who is knocking, without opening the whole door – there is scrollwork as decoration, but so that the window is not completely open. There are three locks – one that cannot be seen – it is electrical. If that lock is not opened correctly, a siren sounds."

"He wasn't able to show me all of this. He said it had to be installed," Christine tells her.

"Yes. Uncle Erik said this was the pro-to-type," she explains. "I'm not sure what that means, but it is supposed to be safer for us. Nadir brought the workmen over to install it."

Andre clears his throat, "Mme. Christine, where should I put the basket?"

"Oh, Andre, I'm sorry, just put it down. Come here," Christine waves the boy forward. "You know Mlle. Meg, correct?" He nods. "This is Mlle. Monique."

"How do you do?" He removes his brown tweed cap with a flourish and bows to both of the young women. "Your hair is short like mine," he says to Monique, squinting his eyes – they light in recognition. "I know you. Why did you cut it, it was so pretty – so long and shiny?"

Her hand goes unconsciously to her shorn locks. "Yes, I am hoping it will grow back soon," she answers. "It was my pride and joy – my one beauty, my mother used to say. Even the color has faded." The sad eyes fill with tears.

"You did not cut it?" Christine inquires.

"No – he did this," she says. "Meg worked with it, making it not so ragged."

Christine exchanges a look with Meg. "He pulled your hair…"

Meg's face darkens. She nods.

"And he remarked about my hair?" She unconsciously tugs at one of her curls.

Meg nods again.

"Do Nadir and Erik know this?

"Not yet. Nadir had already gone to your house when Monique and I returned home. Nadir told Maman that we should write down everything we could remember. Now that Veronique is here, we can have her list as well to help them."

Andre's ears perk at the mention of his mother's name. "Do you know the man that hurt her?" He asks.

"It is possible, Andre," Christine answers.

"He is the man who cut your hair?" he asks Monique.

"If it was the same man – yes," she replies.

Christine eyes the boy and addresses Meg and Monique, "Perhaps we need to speak of this later."

"I should make a list of what I remember, too," he insists. "You and Mlle. Meg know what he looks like, if you tell me, I might know him, too. Maman can draw faces, maybe she could make a picture."

"Truly, Andre?" Christine agrees excitedly. "To have a picture would be a big help. You might even know where he lives. That is great news, we will tell them when they arrive."

"Your Maman could not draw a picture from her memory?" Meg asks.

"She did not see his face," Christine responds. "He wore a mask."

Monique's face falls. "So we would not truly know it was M. Robert who took Veronique?"

"We have his physical description – that could not be hidden behind some fabric covering his face," Christine tells her. "He will pay for what he did to you and Mme. Dupree."

Footsteps and the rumble of men's voices in the hallway indicate the presence of Nadir and Erik. "Where is everyone?" Nadir calls out.

"We are here, Veronique's flat is two more levels up," Meg announces as she runs out to the hallway to help with the sacks. "They are on the fourth floor."

Nadir rolls his eyes. "Whose idea was this?"

Erik snorts, "Yours, old man."

"What, were we supposed to set them up in the cellar?"

"It would have been an easier move, I can assure you of that."

"Stop your bickering, you sillies," Christine laughs. Andre retrieves his basket and follows Meg. With her hand placed firmly on Monique's back, Christine guides her to follow the rest of the group. "I shall bring up the rear."

The six of them mount the stairs single-file up the two flights to the top story. Mme. Giry stands watching them from above. "I did not expect the entire family," she calls down to them.

"Well, we are a family, so this is what you get," Nadir calls out to her.

"You even got Erik out in broad daylight and he did not turn to ash," she laughs.

Erik turns around to look at Nadir. "I guess it truly was a good night," he remarks. "I did not know that Adele could laugh."

"No one knew you could laugh either – do not be so smug," she calls down to him.

* * *

Erik and Christine reach the street just as the coach returns for them. He holds the door for her and helps her in – after giving the coachman an address on Rue de Rivoli, he joins her in the cab.

"Are we not going home?"

"In a manner of speaking, we are," he says.

She tips her head. "Oh?"

After a short drive, the carriage stops in front of an apartment building.

"What is this?" Christine asks, as Erik helps her to the street.

"Our new home, if you wish it," Erik replies. "Wait if you can," he tells the driver. "If not give us half an hour."

Taking her arm, Erik directs Christine to the door of the stone fronted building – one of the many that line the street, the masonry varying little from building to building. Most have storefronts, which help to identify a specific address. "Thankfully ours is a corner building – more windows and better views. We are on the 2nd floor. It is a large apartment and not too far from Nadir."

After climbing the green carpeted staircase railed with wrought iron balustrades, he unlocks the front door which looks familiar to Christine. "You have already put in the secured door, I see," she remarks.

"Ah, you noticed Adele's door?" He replies, puffing out his chest.

"Meg actually called my attention to it," Christine responds. "It looked like any other door, with the exception of the window – where is the third lock?"

He points out the screws on the plate attached to the door handle. "There is an electrical connection. A certain code, when punched in, will release the lock. It works both inside the apartment and outside. When you leave, you put in a code, then when you return, the code unlocks the door. Once inside, you again put in the code and so forth. If someone attempts to open either of the other two locks, an alarm sounds. I used two locks instead of one because the alarm lock might not be set for some reason and the other two are difficult to open, in and of themselves." Beaming after his exposition, he shows her how it works and opens the door to the foyer.

"No traps?" she asks before crossing the threshold.

"I will consider something if you wish this to be our home," he tells her. "I intend for all the doors in this building to be changed over, since we own it, and I want our tenants to be secure. I must have a door made for Mme. Dupree as well, although anyone wishing to rob them would be a fool to climb five stories to do so."

"Perhaps you could invent electrical stairs or some other device to carry people up and down without the need to climb stairs," Christine muses. "I have to admit that three rounds of staircase is about the most I would wish to manage."

"Perhaps, I could," Erik replies. He steps back, encouraging her to enter the flat.

The apartment could not be more different from the little house on the lake. High ceilings with crown molding, the tall windows overlook the street – the view is of the Tuileries, Eiffel Tower and takes Christine's breath away.

An art case baby grand piano, white lacquered wood with gold and green inlays and hand-painted vines, sits in the corner of the main parlor – which is otherwise sparsely furnished – a settee upholstered in a cream and gold brocade – 2 armchairs in pale green with an assortment of tables and porcelain lamps. There are no draperies or rugs and the walls are bare of any decoration.

"Do you like it?" Erik asks.

"It is beautiful," she says, taking in the room as she walks to the piano to run her hand over the fine piece of artwork.

She passes into the dining room – complete with a two pedestal mahogany table and 6 Chippendale chairs upholstered in gold and green. "How large is it?"

"Three bedrooms each with their own bathroom – one is actually a separate small apartment that could be used as a servant's quarters – or a child's area. Kitchen, dining room, a small sitting room adjacent to the main parlor that you have seen. There is a courtyard as well – off the master bedroom."

"I like the idea of a children's area – bedroom and playroom, with a separate eating area," she comments. "And I love the piano."

"It was purchased from the former owner of the building and resident of this apartment, who recently passed away. The family removed most of the furnishings, they were kind enough to sell some pieces that I thought you would like. We can furnish this home to your tastes. The piano took some bargaining, I will say."

"How did you manage to convince them?"

"Money, primarily, but then I played for them – my best effort at being charming."

"How could they resist – no one plays as you do, my maestro,"Christine laughs. "Do you plan to maintain the house at the Opera House?" she asks.

"We shall see what we can use and dispose of the rest. The Dupree apartment could use some furniture beyond the beds and sofa," he says. "As for future use, I do not know."

Christine walks over and presses her body against him. "We could keep it as our secret hideaway when being above the ground becomes intolerable. I have grown to like the quiet, solitary nature of our first home together." Stroking his cheek, sliding her thumb across his lower lip. "This home is lovely, but the cellar suits us somehow." Resting her head on his chest, she asks, "Do you have any idea how much I love you?"

Wrapping his arms around her, he whispers, "I may never know that because it is difficult to believe. What I will say is, I will do whatever I can to deserve your love." He asks, "So you are happy with this as our new home – once it is habitable – maintaining the other for trysts?"

"Yes, my darling man. Now kiss me to bless this decision," she says, lifting her face to his. "Then I want to hear you play this magnificent instrument."

"Only if you accompany me with yours," he responds, holding her head in his hands and meeting her mouth with his. The act as natural now for them as breathing. Breaking away, he leads her to the piano and sits down to play the introduction of _Think of Me._ "Since you will be singing this in a week's time, the more practice the better, hm?"

* * *

Upon their return home, Christine says, "The day has quite fatigued me. Could you undo my dress and corset? I would like to change and take a brief nap."

"With pleasure. Would you care for some tea or a snack first?" He asks.

"No. Just some rest will suit me now," she replies, after kissing his cheek, she retires to the bedroom.

Erik pours himself a brandy and folds himself into an armchair. The idea of M. Robert stalking Christine is never far from his mind. He tells himself that perhaps he is reading into the patron's actions his own behavior with Christine _and_ abilities, for that matter. Robert certainly was not truly aware of who Christine was, or her life, or where she lived when he abducted Veronique Dupree. _But he knew about her relationship to you_ is the thought that repeats in his will never feel Christine to be safe from the man until he is captured and dead… _locked up_. He prefers him to be dead, but in his efforts to rehabilitate himself, he will settle for traditional justice or, at best, try.

The conversation with Monique convinces him that the man is indeed a predator and, apparently a collector of keepsakes – that there were likely more women who were his victims. Possibly some whom are now dead. That makes him a murderer, subject to death by the state.

Another piece of information gleaned from the interview also gives him insight into the role he may personally play in Robert's concentration on Christine. And the reason for the repeating thought. Further investigation will reveal if his suspicions are correct.

* * *

" _Besides Meg and Christine – give us the names of the girls – ballet or in the company – who have especially beautiful hair,"_ he instructed Adele and the young women. _"I do not wish to be forward with you Mlle. Monique, but were you untouched by a man before M. Robert violated you?"_

" _Yes, I never put myself forward to the patrons, as some of the other girls did,"_ she explained. _"My family was still giving me money, so I could afford to share an apartment with other girls."_

" _But you did not return home after he…took you?"_ Nadir asks.

" _I was ashamed,"_ she responds. " _They still do not know."_

" _Monique!"_ Christine exclaims. _"What do they think you are doing?"_

" _Dancing with the ballet."_

" _But, did they not expect you to visit?"_ Nadir asked.

" _I am from Brussels, so, no, they did not expect me to visit. There was money enough for me to live here, that was all."_

" _How long were you under his control?"_

" _Three months. Not long enough for them to become concerned. He had me write them to say I was busy with rehearsals and training…."_ The tears that had been welling in her eyes flow freely. _"I cannot let them see me like this."_

Meg and Christine both rushed to the girl, hugging her and wiping her tears.

" _Why did he let you go? How did you get away?"_ Erik asked. _"Were you confined?"_ His eyes traveled to Christine. Their eyes met and she forced the barest of smiles and shook her head. "It was not the same,"she mouthed.

Returning his focus to Monique, he tipped his head awaiting her response.

" _I…he thought I was with child and slapped me several times, then he punched me in the stomach and dragged me out of the house. I was thrown on the pathway with my cloak and some coins. He went to the stable, mounted his horse and rode off. I started running as fast as I could in the other direction."_

" _But how did you find your way?"_ Erik asks.

" _I could see a building with lights. I went there. It turned out to be a church. Many people were gathered, getting food, help from the priests."_

" _Do you know where you were?"_

" _St. Martin-de-Boscherville – that is what I was told."_

Christine gasps, looking sharply at Erik.

" _But that is over 100 kilometers from Paris,"_ Erik says.

" _The priest, Pere Mansart, arranged passage for me with a farmer and his wife who were taking their crop for sale."_

" _Why?"_

" _I told him that a man took me, then abandoned me. That I was a dancer with the ballet and I had friends in Paris who would help me."_

" _He did not call the police?"_

" _I told him in confession, so he could not repeat what I said. I told him I was frightened of the man and just wanted to go home."_

" _Are you settled with the friends who took you in?"_ Christine asked.

" _She is coming to live with us,"_ Meg said. _"It is a bit crowded with the others and we have room now."_ She smiles at Christine.

* * *

The alarm rings twice.

Erik abandons his ruminations and travels the tunnel to allow entry to Nadir, who follows him back to the sitting room.

"Brandy?" Erik asks.

"No, I am trying to purify myself and adhere to Muslim precepts." Nadir says.

"Adele has driven you back to your faith?"

"Much as Christine has done for you," Nadir retorts.

"Touche. Tea, then?"

"No, I am good."

"So, what did you think about Monique's story?" Erik asks.

"More importantly, what did _you_ think? St. Martin-de-Boscherville?"

"The house is being leased, possibly by M. Robert. The monies are paid to my agent, but it would be easy enough for him to find out the ownership."

"What do you plan to do?"

"Speak to my agent as to the name of the present tenant. Then to Comte de Chagny, to find out what he knows about Georges Robert, brewery owner, likely kidnapper and rapist and possible murderer," he says. "I should also like to travel to Boscherville to ask some questions of Pere Mansart."

"Would you take Christine with you?"

"Ah, that is the question…"

"What is the question about Christine?" she asks, standing the doorway of the bedroom, rubbing sleep from her eyes. Walking over to Erik, she kisses him on the cheek and smells the brandy. "Whew, that is strong. Is there tea prepared?"

"No," he says, "but I can make some."

"I'll do it. Nadir? Tea?"

"Please, so long as you are making some for yourself."

"I am. Macarons, too," she smiles walking into the kitchen. "Perhaps some herring?"

"Herring?" Nadir groans.

"She is Swedish – it is in their blood."

Nadir eyes Erik. "What are you going to.…"

"I can hear you," Christine calls out. "No talking until I come back."

Tea and macarons set out on the dining room table.

"No herring?" Nadir asks.

"I was joking, but once I mentioned it, I developed a craving, but we are out," she replies. "Could we get some more, Erik?"

"Of course, my dear, you shall always have herring in the larder. I apologize for not noticing our lack."

Christine laughs and kisses him on the cheek, serves Nadir and herself, then settles down to listen to what Erik and Nadir are discussing. "So what is the question?" she asks.

"I need to travel to Boscherville to speak with Pere Mansart," Erik says.

"Yes, and I will travel with you. I would love to see him again and to see our property there."

"You are to perform in a week's time," Erik argues.

"I will be fine. You said so yourself today when I sang."

"But blocking…."

"My understudy can stand in for me – I have done the show dozens of times."

"Your health…."

"My health is fine – we would not be walking," she argues. "What are you afraid of?"

Erik looks to Nadir, who shrugs. "Do not look to me, my friend."

"If this man is who I think he is, he has a special motive to want you. The reason I want to see Pere Mansart is to confirm my suspicions and to find out any possible village gossip about him."

"You think he knew you as a child?"

Erik raises his eyes to the heavens, shakes his head, sighs, then smiles, "You are all too clever, my dear."

Nadir perks up. "So you do think it is an old grudge against you?"

"Not the kidnapping business. I doubt that has anything to do with me," he explains. "But after he saw me, with the mask, he may have asked some questions – particularly of the Comte. Discovering my name, he put two and two together. I was the monster of his childhood."

"But why would that matter to him now?"

Erik paces the floor.

* * *

" _Get the monster."_

" _Do not go out there, Erik."_

" _Sasha is outside. Why did you leave her outside?"_

" _The monster's dog. If we cannot get him, let us kill the dog."_

* * *

"The boy who killed my dog was a tall, heavyset boy – a bully. I watched him beat my poor old dog to death. Had I gone outside, the same would have happened to me."

Christine rises from her chair to go to him, taking him in her arms. "Oh, my darling, that poor sweet dog."

"Do you plan to confront him?" Nadir asks.

"I wish I could honestly say no – but, I do not know," he hugs Christine and walks her back to the table.

"Then the three of us will go visit the priest," Nadir declares. "I will not allow that person, if it is he, to destroy your life yet again. We will do this within the law. Make appointments with your agent and Comte Chagny. I will go with you. Our business is a partnership – you will not do this alone."

"Will not?"

"You heard me," Nadir counters. "This is not Persia, nor any other part of your life when you were alone. We all have things at stake here." He shifts his gaze to Christine.

"I see I am overruled," he says.

"Do not think that you are going to sneak out, either, darling," Christine tells him. "We know you entirely too well."

Erik chuckles. "You think I cannot take care of myself?"

"No, I am fully aware that you can and have taken care of yourself – the issue now is that you have a family." Her hand touches her stomach. "If there is a trip, we all go or no one goes."

"Are you certain?" His eyes focused on her hand.

"As much as I can be," she replies. "It is still a feeling as I told you, but a strong feeling."

Nadir raises an eyebrow.

"Christine believes that we are with child," Erik tells him.

"I see that you made a decision about protection."

"In more ways than one, it would seem," Erik says as he walks to Christine. She wraps her arms around his waist as he strokes her hair. "I cannot allow you to travel, not for this, not in this way. I suppose I can write to Pere Mansart."

"A wise choice. The tenant may not be he – or he may have abandoned the house after Monique." Nadir tells him. "Write your letters to your agent and the Comte, I will deliver them myself and arrange the meetings. With your permission, your agent can give me the name of your tenant so no meeting would be necessary."

"Very well." Erik retires to his desk to draft the letters.

Nadir and Christine drink their tea.

"Christine believes _we_ are with child?" Nadir comments. "I do not recall hearing it expressed in quite that way before."

Christine blushes. "Well, we both took part in creating the baby, if we are to be so blessed. I certainly could not have conceived without his participation."

"Yes, I suppose that is true," he agrees, finding himself blushing. Holding his cup up in a toast, raising his voice so Erik can hear him, "Congratulations to both of you on your newest collaboration. Praise Allah."


	21. Evolution

EVOLUTION

Erik feels oddly content as he oversees this outing of his newly created family, which seems to be growing daily, necessitates the use of both company coaches for transport. Christine, Nadir, Adele and he ride in one carriage – Meg, Monique, Veronique, Andre and Darius in the other. Today everyone will be gifted with the new shoes promised as wedding gifts. The addition of Monique and Veronique are a natural extension to the original presents. Andre's needs have been taken care of thanks to Madeleine's trunk containing his boyhood clothing. Thankful to his mother? What a novel thought. Yet, there it was.

* * *

" _There are so many shirts and trousers and jackets, Maman,"_ Andre exclaimed as he examined the contents of the sacks that carried the clothing.

Veronique shook her head at the variety the boy would have to choose from. _"Five pairs of shoes and two of slippers – all seemingly handmade. Stockings and undergarments,"_ she amazed. _"Some are too small for you – we can donate those to the church, I am certain that M. Erik will agree. The larger sizes we shall have for when you grow taller and fill out a bit more. "_

" _Monsieur Erik's mother bought so much. They all seem new, Maman,"_ Andre noted.

" _Yes, I see that."_ She picked through the clothes – they appeared to have been for different stages of growth. _"I wonder why they have never been worn."_

" _I can ask him."_

" _No, my sweet boy – that would be rude. Best we just accept our good fortune."_

* * *

The proprietor of the shoe store, a wiry man of about thirty years, dressed in the newest style of day suit in green plaid, greets the group at the door. The frown and smile appearing on his face simultaneously suggest he is both pleased and chagrined at the sight of nine people wanting his attention at the same time. That one man is masked could be the cause of a sharp intake of breath, before he greets the group.

"Bonjour, Monsieurs, Mesdames, Madamoiselles et jeune homme," he says, rubbing his hands together. "I am Claude Fouquet. How may I be of service?"

"The ladies and men are in need of new footwear – two pairs each. The boy and I are fine with our footwear at the moment. What do you have readymade?" Erik asks.

"Erik, I am fine," Nadir protests.

"Buy something you would not purchase for yourself," Erik responds. "It is a gift, accept it…please."

Nadir nods. "Thank you. I have always fancied some tall leather boots."

"Then you shall have them – and perhaps some colorful slippers to wear with your dervish hat for evenings at home," he says with a smirk, casting a side eye towards Adele.

Fouquet waves his right arm in a flourish, directing their eyes to the display racks that line the walls of the shop – each rack offers a specific type of shoe: ladies, men's, boots, dress, slippers and service. "We have many shoes that are for immediate wear, depending upon foot size – others can be constructed and delivered within a few days. Allow me to seek out my assistant so that we can obtain measurements."

With a slight bow, he retreats to the back of the shop and putting his head through a door covered with a black curtain. He returns with a younger version of himself, the boy carrying a measuring tool. They stand in wait for the party to make their choices.

Christine, Meg and Monique gravitate to the brightly colored fabric shoes.

"Oooo, look at these," Meg swoons. The boots that catch her eye are pale pink with a pattern of roses and vines embroidered up the sides.

"Pink, of course," Christine chuckles. "Look at these, Monique." She picks up a pair of pale blue satin booties, with a large fabric rosette decorating the heels. "They are the color of your eyes."

The girl smiles shyly, looking with longing at the delicate shoes. "They are beautiful, but it is too much."

"Nonsense. This is the first time I have seen a smile on your face – you must have them if only for that reason."

"Thank you," she says to Christine, taking the shoes from her.

"Pick something else – try on several pairs to see what you like the best."

"Meg – what about these?" A pair of burgundy pumps, one held in each hand, are dangled in front of Meg's face.

"Rose again?" Meg pouts. "I like pink. Light pink. Pink, pink, pink," she says laughing, dancing to her little song.

"Whatever you want," Christine says, shaking her head. "I give up."

Meg and Monique each choose several pairs. After measuring the shoes against their feet to assess the sizing, they scurry to the chairs available for the clientele to try on their finds. Christine turns back to the rack to find something for herself.

Adele and Veronique direct their attention to the more solid, heavier weight shoes able to withstand the wear and tear of everyday use. Although Adele does look longingly at a pair of red brocade booties with black stitchery separating the bottom of the boot from the top.

Erik walks up behind her and whispers in her ear, "Go ahead, Adele, they suit you."

She rolls her eyes at him, but removes them from the rack, a faint blush coloring her cheeks.

Erik strolls over to Darius who lingers at the doorway, acting more guard than consumer.

"Darius, you are not here to work. Please find yourself a pair of shoes and boots that please you."

The eunuch relaxes his posture, nods and joins Nadir at the racks displaying men's boots.

"Several of the ladies are current or former ballet dancers and the readymade may not suit or fit properly, or if my Persian friends do not find a boot they like – could you provide specially made shoes?" Erik asks as he approaches the store owner and his assistant.

He notices the choices that the women have made so far. "Two pairs each – so you can have pretty _and_ plain _or_ plain and pretty as the case may be. That means you, Little Giry," he says, before returning his attention to the proprietor.

"Of course, of course. We have a number of shoemakers available for custom shoes." Fouquet inclines his head towards the curtained door.

"Bien," Erik says. He waves his hand to get Christine's attention. "My dear."

One pair has caught her eye, she holds a pair of booties in eggshell white leather and satin with tiny bows aligned toe to ankle, with a small heel. "I like these," she says holding them out to the shopkeeper.

"Of course, Madame, please be seated and we shall see how they fit." To his clerk, he says, "Please help the other ladies if you would, Henri."

The young man bobs his head and hurries over to Meg and Monique, who have already discarded at least three pairs each. Adele and Veronique appear to be satisfied with their selections and are content to sit and watch the younger girls ponder their choices. Nadir and Darius are deep in discussion over whether brown or black leather was a better choice and how high the boots should ride on their legs.

Christine's ballet slippers are removed. "Madame?"

"I suffered a twisted ankle that also damaged my shoes…" Christine explains.

"We have a cobbler who can repair them, if you desire."

"No," Erik responds, "but, thank you."

The man nods. "You are also a dancer?" the man asks Christine. Despite the fine pale pink stockings that she wears, her misshapen toes are still apparent.

"No longer, but I fear that my feet will never been normal again."

Erik stands stiffly behind her, hands tucked under his crossed arms controlling his anxious fingers, looking off to the distance, away from her feet that he still finds oddly repulsive, primarily due to concern about the pain they must cause her, nevertheless he is glad that the damage is covered. Despite the reality of his own disfigurement, he has constructed his life to contain only order and balance – the eternal search for beauty. But then, if there was no ugliness – beauty could not exist.

He wonders if she sometimes feels that way about his face, even with her insistence that he not wear his mask when they are at home – the realization unsettles him and he determines to watch the process of measuring and fitting the delicate booties. He will not, however extend his tolerance to observing the fittings of Adele, Meg and Monique.

Leaving his ruminations, Erik returns his attention to Christine.

"These should fit Madame quite well, I think," Fouquet says as he slips the right boot onto her foot.

Christine holds her foot up, twisting it to the right and left. "I like them," she declares. "Erik, what do you think?"

"Are these the best quality that you have?" he asks.

"Indeed, Monsieur. Most of our more decorative shoes are created here on the premises. Madame has most excellent taste." To Christine, "Let me put the other boot on and then you must walk around to see how they feel."

Both boots in place, Christine saunters around the shop, taking time to lift her skirts to admire the boots in one of the several mirrors placed around the store between the racks. "They look well with this dress, do they not?" The day dress is a pale cream color with apricot embellishments on the bodice and edging the skirt. "They are a bit tight, but that will work out, will it not?"

"Indeed." He presses the point of the shoe to show her that there is room for her to wiggle her toes. "If you have been only wearing slippers for a period of time, your feet have spread. Wearing regular shoes will correct that."

"Very well, then, we will take this pair," she says. "I shall wear them."

Christine picks out two more pairs of shoes of the same size – a boot of deep blue silk with embroidered flowers and a black leather pump with a wide bow across the bridge of her foot. Slippers – one pair white, another pink – are added to her purchases. "That should do for now."

Erik understands in this moment that Christine will likely become one of M. Fouquet's best customers. While she has enjoyed the dresses and lingerie he has purchased for her, the enthusiasm in her eyes while trying on pair after pair of boots tells him what her heart lies. He makes a mental note to buy an additional armoire with shelving to house future purchases.

"We are going to walk along the shops to look for some furniture for our new flat," Erik tells the others, taking Christine's arm. "Take your time." To the shopkeeper, "I shall return to take care of the expenses for my friends, but here is the payment to cover the cost of the shoes Madame is wearing as well as her other choices. Please hold them for our return."

As he takes Christine's arm to escort her onto the boulevard, he sees Andre sitting in a corner, absorbed in play, dangling a string over the head of a black and white kitten.

Andre looks up at them and announces, "Maman says I can have her. M. Fouquet's cat had kittens and this is the last one without a home. I am calling her Erika. She has white on one side of her face and black on the other – and she wears a suit just like yours, M. Erik." He lifts up the kitten to show them. "See?"

A feeling of warmth overtakes Erik – tears form in his eyes. "Yes, I see, Andre," he murmurs. "Thank you.

"She is quite lovely," Christine says, squeezing Erik's hand. "I am so pleased that you have a new playmate."

Erik and Christine leave the store.

"How do the boots feel now that you are walking in them?" he asks her.

"They are very comfortable and light, it is odd wearing shoes after so many weeks in ballet slippers," she replies. "That was quite lovely, Andre naming the kitten for you."

"Yes."

"Are you crying?"

"Yes." Lifting his hand to his face, he brushes away some tears.

She offers him a lace-trimmed hanky from her reticule. "You are a sweet dear man and I love you – so do all those people in that store we just left – including M. Fouquet, you have paid his bills for a month, I am certain!" They walk in silence for a while before Christine asks, "Where are we going?"

Gathering his emotions, Erik clears his throat and tells her, "There are some shops that sell furnishings that I noticed as we arrived – I thought you might wish to see if there were some pieces you might like."

"I am so pleased that you feel so comfortable walking along the street like this – going into shops…"

He stops short to look at her. "Well, I was…until you mentioned it," he retorts.

Christine laughs, "I am so sorry. I am always worried about your concern, and now I am the one who caused your discomfort."

"It will pass," he assures her. "I was so distracted by the business with the kitten. _And_ relieved at being away from confinement of the shoemaker's shop, I forgot I was in the public eye." Refusing to allow the newly formed tension to disrupt this venture, he stops at the storefront displaying the mirrored hutch and sideboard he admires. "Here it is. Shall we?" He ushers her to the doorway, but not before he notices a tall, bulky man turn quickly away when he sees Erik has observed him – or so it appears.

"You go in, my dear, I will follow momentarily," Erik tells her.

"Why?"

"Just a moment," he insists, holding up his hand to block her movement, and goes back to the street. Despite an examination of both directions, entering the boulevard to see if the man simply stepped off the walk, there is no one to be seen.

Christine waits anxiously in front of the shop. "What was it?" Her voice filled with concern.

"I thought I saw someone watching us, but when I tried to locate him, he was gone," he says. "It was probably nothing. Come let us look into the cost of these items – if you like them, that is. Perhaps they will have something else you prefer."

"Erik?"

"Let us not allow my nerves ruin our first day out shopping together." Opening the door to the shop, he ushers her in.

* * *

"If it was M. Robert, and if he was following us, he must have initiated his surveillance here at Adele's building," Nadir says, adding another lump of sugar to his tea, taking a bite of a meringue. "He knows me from our meeting in Adele's office and would remember Darius as the dancers' guardian. I doubt he knows where any of us lives besides Adele – and that only because he likely followed them home at some point. I picked you and Christine up, then we went to Adele's. Your agent was very clear that none of your tenants are aware of the owner of their residences, much less know where you live – I certainly was not."

"Nor I," Adele agrees.

Christine, Adele and Veronique sit with Nadir at the dining room table nibbling at the sweets, while Erik paces the floor. Meg and Monique sit on the sofa with their tea, a plate of macarons and meringues of their own on the coffee table, Andre sits on the floor next to them playing with Erika. Darius, unable to rid himself of the need to stand guard, is positioned at the door. The Girys and Monique have taken their shoes to their bedroom. The others have their packages close by, so as not to get them confused.

The small apartment is crowded, but, as Nadir noted, Adele's home is the center of the family, as they are coming to think of themselves, and all the members need to participate in a plan of action.

"I told the coachmen to return in an hour." Nadir continues. "Felt it was best to dismiss them in the event we were followed back here."

"Do you think he will try to break in?" Adele asks.

Nadir shakes his head. "I doubt he would attempt something so bold – Erik noticing him tells me he knows that we know who he is – again assuming he is shadowing us. If Erik's suspicions are correct, he is now the focus of Robert's attention."

"He is a coward," Erik declares. "He goes after the weak and helpless – or those he thinks to be. I doubt he would attack me directly, but, all of you – particularly you, Christine, are vulnerable. I am so sorry."

"For what do you have to be sorry?" Christine responds, her voice full of ire. "If he is who you believe him to be, he is the one who should be sorry. Look what he did to Monique and Mme. Dupree – and to a poor little dog. He is a vicious beast. I would kill him myself if I could," she continues, her breathing heavy, voice filled with passion, "how dare he threaten any of us, most importantly you, you who have done nothing to him. Nothing." She rises from her chair and rushes to Erik open arms. "We must stop him." Eyes filled with tears look into his. "We must stop him."

"We will, my dear. All will be well." Erik comforts her and walks her back to her seat. "Please sit down, you must not excite yourself so."

Adele shoots him a questioning look, raising an eyebrow.

Erik returns the look in kind – his golden eyes locking with her almost black orbs.

Her thin lips turn up at the corners.

"I have not seen him at the Opera House, M. Erik," Darius says, "The patrons who have asked to visit with the dancers have been most respectful and none fit the description I have of him."

"What about workmen?" Erik returns his attention to the discussion at hand. "He looks more like a scene-shifter than a gentleman."

"To be honest, I have not noticed – but I do not have much contact with them."

"Adele, could he be disguising himself as a member of the stage crew – you, Meg and Monique are the only ones here who have seen him up close?"

Adele sheds a deep breath. "I wish I could say yes, but had I noticed anything untoward, I would have known immediately. He may be hiding within the building or just walking in with the others and staying out of sight when I am present. That is not difficult, much of my time is spent in my office – allowing people to do their work."

"No alarms have gone off suggesting he has been exploring the tunnels."

"You still have them armed?" Nadir asks.

"Of course," Erik says. "I am still paranoid – possibly more now than ever before. With any luck, he will go the way of Buquet and we will be free of him."

"I might know him," Andre says. "I know almost everyone at the Opera House. I just need to see a picture. Maman…?"

"While I did not see him – his face was masked – I could draw him from a description of his face," Veronique tells them. "I just need some paper and a pencil."

"You are an artist?" Meg asks. "Oh, how wonderful. Do you have any of your work that we can see?"

"Unfortunately, no," Veronique answers. "Everything was destroyed in the fire, including my art supplies."

"I have some art paper in my room," Meg says. "I shall get it for you. I draw some myself – maybe you could teach me." She runs to her bedroom to get the requested items.

"What did the Comte say when you met with him?" Adele asks.

* * *

" _Unfortunately, while the man's name does sound familiar, I cannot place him,"_ Phillippe said.

" _He claimed to be the owner of one of the beer conglomerates,"_ Erik advised.

" _Without seeming to be a snob, which I realize I can be at times, most of the nobility would not mingle with the working class – however wealthy they might be,"_ Phillippe admitted.

" _Yes, I understand."_

" _I am not sure that you do, but it is of no matter."_

" _Actually I am quite grateful for your adherence to those standards – I suspect it was a part of Christine's rationale for choosing a life with me rather than one with your brother."_

" _That is quite a revelation. Now_ I _wonder which of us is the true snob,"_ Phillippe smirks.

" _I am an honest man in speech, for the most part – blunt some would say – and particularly adept at polite conversation. The life Raoul offered did not suit her on many levels, however comfortable he may have wished it to be. She told me of your objections,"_ Erik tells him. _"The point is now moot."_

" _Ah, yes, congratulations on your nuptials. Raoul was quite upset, but it is the best for all,"_ Phillippe says. _"You saved Raoul's life and I am indebted to you for that. He is very young, possibly more than other men of his age. I fear my sisters and I sheltered him too much."_

" _And now?"_

" _A commission in the Navy. He will learn discipline and responsibility – things that seem to be lacking in his life,"_ Phillipe said. _"He is a good boy – but a boy."_

" _Thank you for advising me of this, Christine will be pleased to know that he is doing well."_

" _I do not know that well is the correct word, but he has become reconciled to the situation with Madame Saint-Rien – or so it appears. His melancholy has lessened and he does seem anxious to begin his duty with the Navy, if only to put distance between himself and Paris."_

Phillippe rose from the leather chair, a signal he had no more to say on the subject _. "I shall speak to some of my associates about this Georges Robert – many of them have more knowledge of the business world than I. Visiting the ballet girls was not something I engaged in, but those who find it…rewarding may be willing to confide more…personal information, so long as they can maintain anonymity._

" _That would be most appreciated."_ Erik rises to his feet, prepared to take his leave.

" _One other thing, M. Saint-Rien…"_

" _Yes?"_

" _I understand that you and your partner are concentrating on this man at the moment, but I would like to speak with you about installing security precautions in my home. I am also prepared to recommend your services to the associates I referred to earlier."_

" _Thank you, Comte, I believe we can get something started – one must be able to balance many things in life, hmm? Let us set up an appointment where I can walk your house, draw up some rough plans and make a proposal. In the meantime, I would appreciate any information you might gather for me about M. Robert."_

* * *

Christine and Nadir have moved from the dining table so that Veronique can have room to do her sketches – receiving descriptions from Meg, Monique and Adele.

"With Hannibal re-opening in a few days' time, things will be increasingly chaotic," Erik comments, "it would be advantageous to find out more about this man before then – particularly where he resides."

"I will be redirecting my attention from the rehearsal room to the backstage area," Darius tells him. "I have hired a number of other men as guards and checked their backgrounds with the help of Mme. Giry. All of the performers have been made aware of the security and have been introduced to the new men – they know who they can contact if they feel uncomfortable in any way. As a precaution, however, there are also guards who are not identified as such – they will work undercover – some are women."

"Perfect," Nadir says.

"Where have you been finding these new people on such short notice?" Christine asks. "I had no idea the new business had grown to such an extent."

"Many are men I knew from the markets – just living in the city. The war took a toll on everyone. Some were soldiers, other tradesman who lost their businesses, like Mme. Dupree, a number were wounded and can no longer do physical labor," Darius tell him.

"I hired a number of tradesman to build the doors, others are just waiting for assignments – carpenters, locksmiths – some are even educated in electrical work," Nadir adds. "There is a plethora of able workers in the city."

"Then it is more important than ever to rid ourselves of the likes of M. Robert – he is taking up too much of our time. Veronique," Erik calls, "once you finish your sketch to everyone's satisfaction, we can acquire the items you would need to create lithographs to be circulate to our new guards and perhaps post back stage. Would that be acceptable?"

"Of course, M. Erik," she says. "I am so happy to be of help. I know of another printer who would be able to help with whatever we need to make the reproductions. What little was left of our equipment, he purchased."

"That will be of great help – now and in the future," Erik says. "We will be needing artwork and printing for our business advertising and the Opera, well, the Opera will always need playbills. You trust his work?"

"Oh, yes," Veronique responds. "He and Jacques were competitors, but friends as well. Andre and I could not have survived without his purchases. I am not certain he was even able to make use of the press or other pieces, but he bought them in any event."

"A good man, then?"

"Yes."

"I will watch out for him, too," Andre pipes in.

"You may turn out to be the best guard of all," Christine tells him, riffling his hair.

The boy beams at her.

"It seems that we have a plan," Erik says. "Now I think it might be time to take our leave." He rises and helps Christine to her feet, gathering their packages. "Might we borrow a basket, Adele?"

"Certainly."

"Any word from Pere Mansart?" Nadir asks. "I know it is too soon, but…"

"Nothing yet, I used my agent's address for his reply, he will send a messenger if there is a post."

"Here are two for your parcels," Adele says. "They are your own baskets borrowed for the Dupree's move."

Erik loads the shoe parcels into the carriers. "Much better."

"Thank you, Madame," Christine says, leaning to give the older woman a hug. "You are so good to me."

Adele mumbles, "You are welcome." Then continues in a rush, "I am sorry I was so fussy with you the other day."

"I have no idea what you are talking about. You are simply Madame and I love you." She gives the woman a kiss on the cheek, then takes Erik's arm. "I feel the need of a nap, shall we go?"

They make their good-byes to the others.

"Let me know if you…" Erik and Nadir say in unison, then laugh.

Once outside the apartment, Erik says, "Why did you not say something – you were insisting that she was in love with me and hated you…"

"The hard feelings will end more quickly this way. I am just pleased she was aware of her behavior. It did not harm me, I knew she would come to her senses."

"I do not understand," Erik replies.

"You do not have to."

* * *

Their carriage awaits them at the curb. Erik assists Christine into the cab and places the baskets inside on the floor. Out of Christine's earshot, he asks the driver, "M. Khan explained our plan?"

"Yes, M. Erik. I will drive you and Madame to the Opera House – not the Rue Scribe house. You will escort her into the Opera House and I am to wait outside for your return."

"And?"

"And, I am to keep an eye out for a large man, tall and moderately stout – whether on foot or in a carriage, possibly a chaise. I must take note of the type of carriage, horse and the driver if there are two men."

"Excellent. Now let us be on our way." Erik gets into the coach and it makes its way up the street.

"What was that about?" Christine asks.

"Just some special instructions," Erik remarks as he pokes his head out the window, looking back at Adele's building. Seemingly satisfied at what he views, he relaxes back into his seat.

"Erik?"

"What?"

"What is going on?" She shifts in her seat so that she can turn his head to face her. "You cannot fool me, when do you intend to stop trying?"

"Um."

Turning again to her own window which faces the street, she sticks her head out to find what Erik was looking at. "I see our second carriage down the street," she harumphs.

Erik pulls her back from the window. "Was there another coach or cart between us?"

"Yes, one of those small carts…chaises, with one horse."

"Did the driver see you?"

"How do I know, you pulled me back in."

At that moment, the chaise pulls up beside them, then increases speed to pass. In moments, Nadir's carriage passes as well, following the smaller vehicle.

"Monsieur, what shall I do," the driver asks, speaking through the lover's phone.

"Follow as best you can – with caution."

"Did I do something wrong?" Christine asks, her eyes questioning and concerned.

"No," Erik snaps. "No." He repeats in a softer tone. "I should have told you what was going on. I did not wish to frighten you."

"Was that M. Robert?"

"Most likely…. Yes, I am certain it was he."

"It was intended that he follow us home and Nadir was going to follow him?"

"Something like that."

"Oh, dear, now what?"

"We hope that he does not realize that Nadir and Darius are following him. We will continue behind them, so long as the ride does not become reckless."

"I am so sorry," she reaches for his hands with hers.

He raises them up and kisses each knuckle to calm his frustration. "It was meant to happen as it happened, my dear. Do not let it worry you," he assures her. "We only wished to find out where he resides. No contact was intended. Anything more would have put you in jeopardy."

"What about you being in jeopardy?"

"I am very experienced in taking care of myself. Nadir was a daroga – a sheriff – and has been working as a private investigator. Darius was a palace guard." With the gentlest voice he can muster, hoping to mask any sort of irony, he says, "We have just formed a business to provide protection and security to other people."

"I know," she sighs, attempting to muster a smile, "I am just worried."

"Do not be, or try not to be. You are the most precious thing in my life, I have no intention of doing anything to risk that."

As they reach the Rue Scribe gate, they find Nadir's carriage parked in front. Their driver pulls up behind him and Erik helps Christine down – gathering up the baskets and placing them on the walk.

"What happened?" Nadir asks, jumping out of the coach. "Everything was going as planned. I know he did not spot us, his focus was directed on your coach. He never looked back once. Then, without warning, he just took off. We tried to keep up, but a small chaise like that – well, it was not worth the risk."

"I looked out the window to try to see what Erik was looking at," Christine tells him. "Robert must have seen me and panicked."

Nadir frowns, then smooths his brow, but not before Christine notes his displeasure.

Her fingers knot together, tears form in her eyes. "I am so sorry, but you should have told me." Her full lips flatten into a straight line as her back stiffens. " . .me. You do not tell me anything. You did not tell me about the doors. You did not tell me how the business is growing… Do you know how foolish I felt today?

A storm begins to rage as she faces Erik. "Stop treating me as if I am a porcelain doll. I lived outside for a good part of my life and I am not going to break – you, of all people should know that. I chose you because you treated me as an equal, not some fantasy creature who is set upon some pedestal, never to have a thought or opinion of my own.

"I can be better protected if I am allowed to help protect myself, and that includes telling me what you are planning. Maybe I could even help." With that she turns on the heel of her new booties and walks to the gate. "I should like to go home now," she says.

"Tomorrow?" Erik says to Nadir, as he scoops up the baskets and scrambles to the gate. His deepest wish at the moment is that the guidance Nadir gave him about women remembering, but forgiving is true. If that is so, he may just have a chance to acquit himself of these blunders.

"Tomorrow."

* * *

"My dear," Erik sputters. "I am deeply sorry that I have taken you so for granted in this. I promise you shall know everything I am…we are doing from now on." He leads the way through the tunnels, disconnecting and reconnecting the traps as they pass them. This is no time to forget precautions, however unsettled he is at this unusual outburst from Christine. _Will she forgive him? Has he ruined the perfection his life has become in these past weeks?_

She stands at the doorway, arms folded, lips in a pout, waiting as he opens the final lock to the door. She pushes past him into the kitchen, removing her bonnet, tossing it and her reticule on the counter. Rummaging through the larder, pushing cheese and eggs aside, a low growl escapes from her throat.

 _What is she searching for?_

"Where is the herring? You said you would always have herring for me. Where is it?" Her eyes have changed from anger to entreaty. Tears lay heavy on her lids, ready for the dam to break if he is unable to satisfy her need.

"I, um, I…"

"No ums," she pleads. "Please, no ums." She flops into a chair at the small worktable, all the fight gone out of her. "Do we have herring or do we not?"

Erik looks helplessly around the kitchen and into the larder that Christine just ransacked. Glancing down at the baskets of shoes, one of which has tipped over – the contents spilled on the stone floor – he sees a jar lying alongside the cardboard boxes – a jar of pickled herring. _Where? How? Adele. Bless her for knowing without knowing._ "We do. We do." The words a song of joy. Could he dance, he would. The jar is picked up from the floor, grateful that it did not break, he opens it and hands it to Christine with a fork grabbed from the draining basket that sits on the counter next to the sink.

Greedily digging into the food that she claims to be the lifeblood of her people, she finds peace. "Thank you, darling," she says between bites.

"My pleasure, my dear," he responds, handing her a napkin to wipe the tears that have now begun to fall from her aquamarine eyes – the eyes that just moments ago, he feared would never smile for him again. "Is there anything else?"

"Macarons, please."

"Really?"

"Yes, and some of the strawberry jam."

"Of course." He feels his stomach churn, a bit of bile reaching his throat, but sets out a plate of the cookies and a pot of jam.

She forks some of the jam onto a macaron and takes one bite, then another, and another, finishing the treat, licking the crumbs from her fingers.

"Anything to drink? Tea?"

"No." She sniffles and wipes her nose with the napkin. "Erik?"

"Yes?" His tone tentative, still uncertain of what to expect, his fingers unsettled, playing against his thighs.

The herring jar is placed on the table, next to the plate of sweets, she taps the napkins against her lips, then tosses it on top of the plate. "May I have a kiss?" She holds her arms open to him.

Every bit of tension that has kept him on his feet disappears, his knees are so weak he can barely stand, but he manages the few steps to her chair before falling to his knees in front of her. "You may have all the kisses you want from this foolish man – although why you should want them, I do not know."

She removes his mask and wig, then cups his face in her hands and bends to kiss him. As always, her passion takes him by surprise. Her mouth presses against his, opening his lips with her tongue, sweet from the strawberries and cookie with the barest touch of fish – a combination of flavors that does not seem so terrible after all. He can hardly breathe. "Oh, Christine."

"Now I want the rest of you," she whispers, standing up, helping him to his feet.

"You are not angry?"

"Perhaps a bit, but if you keep your promise to tell me everything…besides, I know the perfect way to dispel my frustration," she assures him, grabbing his trousers by the waistband.

With the bit of sanity he has remaining and the realization he will never know what to expect from this enigmatic woman, nor caring about it one whit, he allows himself to be led to the bedroom.


	22. Return Visits

RETURN VISITS

Raoul feels the room closing in on him. When he was a boy he loved his bedroom because of the confined nature, two tall windows created one wall of light that opened to a Juliet balcony overlooking the tree-lined street below – it was cozy for a shy child, but had light and a maple he could fantasize about climbing. Of late it was a prison cell of his own making.

Since that night the Opera Ghost, or Phantom, or _Erik_ , as he now known, spied on him from the window, using that selfsame maple to access the Juliet balcony, he no longer felt peace here. Worse, he actually tried to kill him – changing his persona from the good man he believed himself to be to what he accused his adversary of being. No mistake about that, his intention was to destroy the creature up to, and including, using Christine and the police to abet him. His shame lay not in shooting him in the back, but that his aim was off and, while he believed he did manage to hit him once, the other shots went astray. He knew that was wrong, but it mattered not.

 _Erik_ confirmed his suspicions about the shooting after he bungled his own suicide attempts. Plural – two attempts. The first, what he thought, in some romantic illusion, to be a murder-suicide of lovers being prevented from consummating their love

Phillippe would never let him marry Christine, so, of course, she decided to align with the creature. What else was a young woman to do? He did not even mind that _Erik_ might have already claimed her maidenhead. He and Christine would be married in death – that was his plan – the two of them together, broken bodies on the walk outside the Palais Garnier, as it should be. Let the creature suffer over that as well.

But that plan went awry. How could he live without her? How could he live with the humiliation of her rejection? Thus, the second attempt, one of shame and despair.

But, as it would turn out – no one knew. Not a word had been spread about the events of that day at the Opera House. A contrary part of him was disturbed as much by that as the rejection.

Would no one ever acknowledge him as a presence – a person of substance who desired…needed approbation? Never in his life had he felt such hatred – hate that overcame every moral lesson he had been taught. Where had this desire to murder come from? He felt his soul rotting, but had no idea how to stop it.

Even now, Phillippe was telling him what he was going to do – fulfill a commission in the Navy. In honesty, the idea of going to sea was actually appealing. He was the one who brought it up initially. Phillippe had taken over, yet again, and Raoul was left to wait to find out what someone else wanted him to do.

The upshot of it all, _Monsieur Erik Saint-Rien_ was visiting his home. Visiting _his_ brother.

* * *

"So what did the creature want?" Raoul asks as he enters Phillippe's study, closing the heavy oak door behind him.

The room is an elegant representation of old nobility – antique desk of carved mahogany, bookcases full of all manner of published works, framed maps on the walls and dark curtains to protect the Asian rugs from the sun.

"Since you were eavesdropping, I suspect you already know," Phillippe responds dryly, from his leather armchair, he glances over his shoulder at the disheveled young man, unshaven, his shirt hanging untucked from baggy trousers. "Creature?"

"You have not seen his ruined face – distorted mouth, the entire right side of his face scarred and malformed."

"And you are handsome – beautiful some might say – and that is how you define another human being who is not so perfect in physical appearance?" He sizes the younger man up with a wrinkled brow. "You could take some cues from him in your manner of dress. Why do you no longer care about how you appear to the world?"

"What does it matter the manner of attire I don about the house? There is no one here to see me," he grumbles. "My appearance has nothing to do with what I see as his ugliness."

"And yet, the girl – Christine – married him – not you."

"That was your doing."

"No, my dear brother, she made up her mind long before I entered the discussion. Strictly as an observer, and someone who has been in love at least once in my life, I could see there was no passion between you – in either direction. Do not lie to yourself," Phillippe retorts. "Leave that issue behind."

Raoul flinches. "So, are you going to help him?"

"If I can," Phillippe says. "Even if you are not, I am indebted to him for saving your life – not once, but twice. I sensed no love lost for you either – then or now, but he did not have to let you live. You threatened the girl's life, your death could have been seen easily as purely defensive."

He chooses a cigar from the humidor on his desk, clips it with a silver cutter, licks the length of the brown tobacco before lighting it with the matching lighter. Settling back into his chair, he blows a cloud of smoke into the air.

"Do you know of this Georges Robert?" Phillippe redirects the conversation. Raoul's almost constant presence at the Opera House over the past several months would give him more knowledge than his attempting to query his associates, who would, more likely than not, lie or become mute at questions about their interest in the ballet rats.

"Possibly."

"What does that mean – either you do or you do not," is the curt reply. "I suspect you do. So tell me about him."

Raoul flops down in the leather armchair opposite his brother's in front of the fireplace. He throws a leg over the edge and stares at the empty hearth. "He is a pig. Crude and hard – the girls were all afraid of him. He has money, though, or so he brags – owns a series of breweries from what I understand. He is from the Rouen area, I believe."

Phillippe raises an eyebrow at this bit of information. "Were you ever social with him?" the older man presses.

"The night that I first heard Christine sing, the first time I saw her since we were children, the night she disappeared…" He gets lost in his memories for a moment. "He was there, part of the group the managers were courting for funding."

"What were his comments – do you recall?"

"He wondered about the Phantom, the Opera Ghost – the mask business. The mask seemed to interest him," Raoul says. "Then he made a crass comment about Christine. How she was the choice plum the OG picked from the array of fine fruit the Opera had to offer. I suggested he keep his coarse opinions to himself."

"So you endeared yourself to him," Phillippe laughs. "Very gallant. Well, I suppose that eliminates you as a friendly contact."

"Another girl disappeared that night, too. I had forgotten about that. No one thought anything of it, it was one of the ballet girls. I was still new to the Opera, but I sensed that had Christine not recently been promoted to the lead singing role, and had I not been of her acquaintance, her leaving would not have been an issue either."

"Now that might be something useful."

"Phillippe?"

"Yes?"

"I am sorry I have caused you so much concern," Raoul says. "I loved her – or I thought I loved her. I do not know anymore. I want to help, though, if there is some threat from this man."

"See if you can find out where he lives," Phillippe suggests. "And, Raoul – from everything I have discovered about M. Saint-Rein, he is a good and honorable man – maligned at times, some of which his own doing likely." He flicks the ashes from his cigar into a crystal ashtray. "He was a contractor who worked withCharles Garnier on the building of the Palais. When I contacted Charles, he told me that Erik was brilliant, but wary of people because of his deformity. Your comments seem to give credence to that observation."

"What about the lasso – he could have killed me…"

"Could have, but didn't. Yes, he likely has a past we may never know much about," Phillippe agrees, "however, all we have is now and I find him to be a man of honor. I trust you will eventually find your way to consider him in that way as well. You have always been full of kindness and love. I am sorry you have been hurt. But hate destroys the hater, and you would be wise to consider that when thinking about M. Saint-Rien."

"I shall attempt to discover where Robert lives and whatever else I can," Raoul says as he leaves the room.

* * *

"Aarggh." Christine holds her head over the commode, hands on either side of the bowl, her hair flowing over her body like a shroud.

"Christine, what is it?" Erik rushes through the bedroom to the bath. "Oh, my dear, are you ill?" He kneels on the floor next to her, holding her around the waist, gathering the hair away from her face.

Coughing, she lifts her tear-stained eyes to his, then feeling another rush of nausea, turns her head back to throw up…nothing – dry heaves. She sits back on her heels, her breath hard and ragged. "I have been feeling nauseated for a while now when I awaken, but this is the first time I felt this sick."

"The fish, perhaps?" Erik ventures. He had no idea Christine was struggling each morning. Despite the fact that he was actually getting more sleep now than ever before, he was always up and about long before she awoke.

"Perhaps, but nothing came up – just bile." She takes the cloth he hands her to wipe her mouth. "That would be too cruel of my body – making me want something to eat and then rejecting it." He helps her to her feet.

"Our, um, relations?"

"Definitely not," she asserts, turning to face him – poking her finger against his chest. "Do not even let that thought enter your head."

"Crackers or toast might help. I shall also prepare you some ginger tea," he says. "Finish getting dressed while put something together for you. Do you need help?"

"No, I feel better now," she says. "I hope this does not last."

"I will do some research," he says, giving her a kiss on the forehead before leaving her to her toilette.

The alarm rings twice.

Erik goes to the door to allow Nadir entry.

"Did Mitra vomit when she carried Reza?"

"Good morning to you, too," Nadir responds. "Christine is ill?"

"Yes – sick or just exhibiting symptoms of being with child – I do not know enough about it. She says she has been suffering nausea and I found her with her head in the commode just now."

"As I recall, Mitra did have a problem with nausea, but it went away after a while. She had the desire for peculiar foods as well – and…oh, so that is what was happening yesterday?"

"Yes."

Nadir laughs, "So it is confirmed?"

"I suppose – this is a very new experience for both of us, but Christine feels certain – she would be the one to know. Thank the heavens Adele put a jar of pickled herring in the basket, otherwise, I am not sure I would still have a head this morning."

"Congratulations! You will be fine parents."

"Christine will be fantastic, as for me, well…" he sighs. "I am concerned, as you must know."

"Yes," Nadir says. "That is a chance with any new child. My Reza was blessed with a beautiful face, the heart of a lion and the talent of a magician, but his body was weak."

"I am so sorry, my friend, I loved him, too."

"I know. I know." Nadir risks patting Erik on the back.

The barest shudder flows through his body and he stiffens, but Erik does not reject the daroga's hand. "So anything to report on this fellow Robert?" he asks.

Nadir pulls an envelope from his pocket, waving it in the air. "We can read this over a cup of tea. I found it on my door this morning."

When they reach the kitchen, Erik puts the kettle on and slices some bread that he impales with a toasting fork. Removing a jar of ginger from the larder, he puts a small piece into a teacup, presses it with the back of a teaspoon and adds some honey and a stick of cinnamon. For Nadir and himself, he spoons some Darjeeling tea into a teapot to await the boiling water.

Christine enters the room, her face still pale, but her eyes are bright and a smile breaks over her face at the sight of Nadir. She walks over to him and kisses him on the cheek. "I am so sorry for my outburst," she says. "I do believe this child is making certain we all know that a new member is joining our family."

"What outburst?" Nadir asks. "Please sit down."

"So what does Frederick say?" Erik asks. The water is boiling and he prepares the tea.

Nadir opens the envelope and pulls out a folded sheet of paper, "The house was leased to Georges Robert, as suspected," he looks up to Erik, who nods.

"Go on."

"He began leasing about 10 years ago, but…this is interesting – stopped paying the lease this past month."

"Planning to move or believing he had been discovered? Did he give notice?"

"Erik, the house was burned down."

"What? When? Why was I not advised?"

"It was just discovered – no one really knew when because the house was so isolated. It was not noticed until Frederick sent someone to check on it due to the late rent combined with your inquiry."

"So he is an arsonist in addition to being a kidnapper and who knows what else," Erik says. "I suppose we should send someone to investigate the property for anything he may have left behind. Fire does not always destroy everything."

"What do you think might be there?" Christine asks, taking a sip of her tea. "Ooo, this is yummy." And in her next breath, "Do you think there might be bodies?"

"One of the reasons I love you, my dear, is your lack of fear in viewing the darkness. I apologize again for my forgetting your strength," Erik replies. "Yes. Bodies – remains – a fire has to be quite hot to disintegrate bone."

"I can send two men I used in the past on investigations," Nadir offers. "I would prefer not disturbing the staff at the Opera House."

"No, of course not – as far as he is concerned, the fire took care of things in Boscherville." He begins toasting the bread over the burner on the stove. "Anything else?"

"Pere Mansart appeared at the office asking for you."

"The priest?" Christine asks. "Do you think he might know something about the fire?"

"If not that, then M. Robert. It must be of deep concern to him if he came to Paris to speak to us about it," Erik says. "What did Frederick tell him?"

"To meet you at the Opera House at 2 o'clock."

"Perfect – my rehearsal is at 2:30, so I can see him before that," Christine exclaims.

Erik and Nadir frown at each other.

"Do not make faces you seem to think are behind my back, especially when I am looking right at you," she scoffs. "I merely wish to say hello. Besides I thought we had decided there would be no more secrets."

"Are you certain you want to go to rehearsal at all? How do you feel?

"I am fine now. Hungry actually."

"Herring?"

"No, although, I do think that we should have it handy. I love the fish, but what happened yesterday was something I have never experienced before." She massages her stomach and says, "A strong-willed little person is forming in my womb, judging from her early activity."

"Her?"

"Her – his…"

"But you think 'her?'" Erik asks.

"Yes."

"I suppose you have already named her?"

"Belle Angelique," she admits. "Do you like it?"

"That is just perfect," Erik says, kissing her in a rare expression of spontaneous affection, ignoring Nadir who is beaming at both of them.

"Now some breakfast," she says. "Oh, you are making toast – perhaps with cheese and mustard and a bit of sweet pickle?"

"Oh, my – for breakfast?" Erik asks.

"Why not, I think it sounds delicious." Christine responds. "Also, a macaron or two."

Nadir merely covers his mouth as he turns away.

* * *

Meg and Monique warm up at the barre concentrating on deepening their plies in all five positions. Using some of her newfound funds, Meg purchased new ballet shoes for both of them and they are in the process of breaking them in.

"So many new shoes," Monique says. "My father was always insistent that we wear the best made shoes possible – to the point that we would often go without other necessities. _Protect your feet._ He nearly fainted when he saw how my feet looked once I took up ballet."

"Christine told me that Uncle Erik got really upset when he saw her feet!" Meg giggles. "Mine are quite ugly, but Maman says that is the prices one pays for beauty in the dance."

"Ladies?"

Meg and Monique start at the voice. They look in the mirror, but the man stands several feet away from their practice, out of their view. Their guard is at his station, which allows them to take a deep breath. Whoever this is, has passed muster.

Holding hands, they turn to see who is addressing them.

"Oh, Vicomte," Meg says, relaxing. "You startled us."

"My apologies," Raoul says, glancing at the mirror – the girls are visible, but he is not. "I should have waited until you took notice of me." He steps closer to them.

"Oh, that is all right, now that we know it is you, we are fine," Meg replies. "This is my friend, Monique. I do not believe that you have met her. She was away for a while and only recently returned to us."

"Monsieur le Vicomte." Monique curtsies, then stations herself behind Meg. A faint blush colors her cheeks, she drops her head.

"Mademoiselle," Raoul says. Monique is perhaps the loveliest girl he has ever seen – the copper-colored hair – cut in gamine style, so unusual for women. In fact, he does not recall having ever seen a lady with such hair. Her blue eyes so full of light – for him, perhaps. Like a fawn – she is pale and delicate in her pink tutu, skin as smooth and white as porcelain, with just a dusting of freckles on her nose.

"Monsieur," Meg says. "Monsieur le Vicomte?" She taps him on the shoulder. "Can we help you?" Turning around to look at her friend, then back at Raoul, she laughs.

"Ah, yes, yes, of course," he says, regaining his composure. "I was wondering if you might know of a Georges Robert?"

Monique's face falls, the pale eyes darken at the name. She clutches her stomach and bends over as if struck, her legs crumpling under her.

Meg wraps her arms around the girl, and guides her to the floor – cradling the frail body in her arms, rocking her gently. "It is all right. He is not here." She looks up at Raoul.

"What did I say?" Raoul is confused. The he recalls what he told Phillippe about another girl who went missing. "Did he take you, too?"

Monique bobs her head in a nod, not meeting his concerned eyes.

"Dear God," he says, joining them on the floor, offering Monique his handkerchief. "My brother asked me to help locate him. I had no idea…I am so sorry."

"You-you could not know," Monique says. "It was just a shock to hear his name. I have just returned, so was not expecting word of him here – I was told he is not allowed."

"How long were you with him, may I ask?" Raoul wants nothing more than to wrap his arms around this fragile girl, contenting himself to sitting on the floor next to the two ballerinas, clasping his hands to keep them still.

"Three months. It was during the break, while the chandelier was being repaired – we were still coming here to practice."

"I remember that another girl was abducted, the same night that Chris…" He stops himself, unwilling to evoke that memory – when he found her again, then lost her – not realizing at the time how permanent that loss would eventually become.

"Christine left with Uncle Erik – the first time." Meg finishes for him.

 _Uncle Erik?_ "Yes – that night," he says, his mouth hard. "That was not you?"

"No, it must have been someone else," Monique says.

Both girls' eyes grow wide.

"So someone else – he took someone else?" Meg cries. "The evil man. He touched my hair. I do not even know who he…"

"He fancies pretty hair?" Raoul asks, looking at Monique's shorn locks.

"He cut it off," she answers his unspoken question.

"No one returned, as you did?"

"I do not know," Monique answers. "Meg?"

"I cannot recall. I try and try to remember if any other girls have gone missing. Maman keeps asking me, but even she cannot even remember," Meg says, her eyes filling with tears. "How terrible is that, when you do not know when one of your company goes missing?"

"What is being done? Phillippe told me that…Erik was heading an investigation – he asked for Phillippe's assistance."

"Yes, Uncle Erik and Nadir – his friend – they have a security business," Meg offers. "Perhaps you should speak with him."

Raoul stiffens at the suggestion. _What happened to the Phantom everyone had so feared –they were willing to help kill him? Now he is Uncle Erik – a noble and honorable man providing security to the Palais Garnier._

"I know that might be difficult for you, but…"

"This is more important than my feelings," Raoul says.

" _Things have changed, Raoul."_

"Are you well situated now, Monique?" he asks, shaking off the memory of the night he began to lose himself.

"Monique is staying with Maman and myself. Perhaps you would like to visit?" Meg blurts out.

"Perhaps, I would," Raoul answers. "If the mademoiselle thinks it suitable."

A bit of the light Monique exhibited earlier returns. She nods acquiescence to Raoul's desire to see her again.

"Very well. I will speak to your mother, Meg."

"Not as a courtesan," Meg tells him. "Monique does not need that again."

"No, not as a courtesan," he says. "As a friend."

"Good, then that is fine with me," Meg asserts.

"I will be in touch," he stands up and helps both women to their feet. Tipping his hat, he walks toward the guard, exchanging a few words, nods his head and leaves the rehearsal area.

The dark cloud that has been hanging over him begins to clear. For the first time in the weeks since the debacle with Christine, he feels alive again. Perhaps he was not damned to hell after all for his despicable actions. God appears to have sent him his own angel. Erik be damned – good man or not.

The motivation to find this M. Robert has become personal, more than just a good deed based on his brother's recommendation. He must speak to Erik, however distasteful that might be, and heads to Adele's office to seek her assistance in that regard _and_ to request her permission to visit with Monique.

* * *

"Ah, Monsieur Saint-Rien, please come in," Armand says, holding the door open. "Madame. Monsieur Khan."

"We are expecting a visit from a Pere Mansart at two o'clock," Erik explains. "Has he arrived?

"Indeed, he has," Firmin tells them. "We asked him to wait in the office that has been set up for you and M. Khan."

"Ah, yes, thank you, I am sorry to have bothered you," Erik says turning to direct Christine and Nadir back into the hallway.

"Monsieur Saint-Rien?" Armand reaches for Erik's arm to stop him and is rewarded with a hard look. He looks at his hand and pulls it back as if burned. "I…is the search for M. Robert going well? We have told Mme. Giry everything we know about him."

"Unfortunately, it was not much," Firmin adds.

"No, I suppose not – so long as the check clears the bank, the men were given free rein to do what they wished with the girls."

"That is not entirely true, Monsieur…" Firmin sputters.

"No? Then how is it that another girl disappeared before Monique and no one knows who she is or where she is now? Thankfully, Mlle. Monique survived this beast."

"Monsieur, please…" Armand pleads.

"Erik," Christine takes Erik's hand. "They are not at fault. It is the way things were – long before they took over. In an odd way, there was a belief that introducing the ballet rats to wealthy men was a way to help them. Many girls made happy lives. Sometimes that was the only chance a dancer might have any sort of life free from poverty. Most of them accept the proposals willingly – M. Robert just took the girls he wanted."

"As always, you are correct, my dear," Erik concedes. "Monsieurs, we will take our leave. Please go about your business. I will be in touch if I need to speak with you further."

The managers exchange a nervous look and bow slightly as the threesome exit their office.

The office for Phantom Security is located down the hall just beyond Adele's where they stop first to alert her of their arrival. Erik knocks on the door and sticks his head in. "We are here, Adele."

She sits at her desk, hands folded atop a stack of papers, turning at the sound of the door opening. "Ah, Erik – do come in."

"We were just going to the security office and wondered if you cared to join…" he stops the invitation when he sees Raoul sitting on the chaise longue across from Adele's desk.

"You? What brings you here? Another trip to the roof?" Erik sneers.

Christine pushes past him. "Who is here?"

Nadir squeezes past the two of them. He spots Raoul as well and quirks his eyebrow at Adele, who shrugs.

"Raoul?" Christine takes Erik's arm to stop him from any move toward Raoul.

"Christine, M. Saint-Rien, M. Khan. I am here to offer my assistance in apprehending Georges Robert – at my brother's request," he tells them. "I had the pleasure of meeting Mlle. Monique just now. The additional knowledge of her kidnapping has me desire to be more engaged. I have some knowledge of the man. Not much, I must add, but it is first hand and personal, which might be helpful."

Erik looks to Adele for confirmation.

"That is much what he told me," she tells them. "What is the expression: _it takes a thief to catch a thief._ This is much as you described yourself, Erik."

"I was visiting the ballet girls and met M. Robert along with some other men – I would have a better chance of exacting information from those who are so inclined than my brother. Were I able to locate him, he might be more amenable to my interest than either of yours." He inclines his head toward Erik and Nadir.

Erik ponders his comments a moment.

Christine tugs at his arm. When he looks down at her, she is nodding. "Let him do this." She turns to smile at Raoul. "Thank you. Monique is very precious to us. We all appreciate your desire to help."

"Very well," Erik concedes. "Christine and I will meet with the good father. Nadir, perhaps you and Adele can advise the Vicomte on what we are doing and how he might be able to utilize his knowledge." To Raoul: "Thank you for your help."

He opens the door for Christine. "Please join us when you are able, Nadir. Pere Mansart might be able to provide more information to your operatives."

"M. Saint-Rien – Christine," Raoul calls after them. "Please accept my deepest apologies for my previous actions. I also wish to thank you for…"

"Not killing you or allowing you to kill yourself?" Erik says.

"Erik – stop it. Accept his apology," she says, looking at Raoul. "I accept your apology, Raoul."

"Thank you, Christine."

"Hmm." Erik takes Raoul's measure. _There is something different about the boy, perhaps because he no longer acts as a boy, but a man. He has also stopped looking at Christine in that foppish way of his. The desire to kill was in both our hearts. No time for that now – if he can help with Robert, then that will have to suffice._

Raoul stands, eyes directed at Erik, waiting.

"Accepted," Erik says. "Now we must meet with Pere Mansart, he has traveled a long way to speak with me and I do not wish to keep him waiting any longer."

* * *

Pere Mansart rises from the green tufted sofa – one of the few pieces of furniture in the new office – when he hears the door open. "M. and Mme. Saint-Rien, I am so pleased to see you again, despite the circumstances. You both look well." He walks toward them offering his hand. "Marriage suits you."

Erik takes it and motions to the priest to return to his seat. He pulls the visitor's chair away from the plain wooden desk for Christine. "Madame has rehearsal shortly, perhaps we can begin our conversation here then you might wish to accompany us to the stage."

"I would be honored to hear you sing again, Madame. This time without a door between us."

"Thank you," she replies.

"You have news of Georges Robert?" Erik asks.

"I do."

"I understand that he lived in Boscherville for ten years in my mother's former house…"

"He lived in the house for ten years – leased it when the previous lessor passed away. He was always a resident of the town – at least according to one of my parishioners," he explains. "When I received your letter, I asked some of my them if they knew of the man living there. I was lucky – one lady in particular was a font of information."

* * *

" _Oh, yes, Pere Mansart,"_ Mme. Eloise Chartres said, pleased to have the opportunity to share the information with him. Thrilled with the attention, she patted the seat next to her in the church hall. Adjusting her generous frame, she leaned back, folding her arms in front of her, nodding her head at the knowledge she could impart. " _Georges has lived in the town his entire life."_

" _Where was he living before the Saint-Rien house?"_

" _With his widowed mother. He owned some businesses – breweries, I believe – but would return here from Rouen on Saturday. When she died, I think it was about 10 years ago, the house was up for lease and he moved there."_

" _He left his family home?"_

" _It was a small cottage. I think he had hoped to move his mother there, but could not lease the house until M. Alberdine passed away. I remember him cursing the poor old man at the green grocer one day."_

" _For not moving out?"_

" _Yes, it created quite the stir."_

" _Do you know why he wanted that house? Surely there were other houses that would suit him."_

" _Oh, he had a grudge against the Saint-Rien family…"_

" _How so?"_

" _Monsieur Charles died in a terrible accident, as you may know."_

Pere Mansart nods. " _I believe I heard that."_

" _Well, Georges' father was one of the workmen on that same job. He also died in the accident, leaving Georges and his mother with next to nothing."_

" _They were destitute?"_

" _No, not entirely. The owner of the project made a settlement with them, enough to keep their house, but not much else. I understand that when Mme. Saint-Rien heard of their state, she set up a trust – I believe your uncle encouraged her to do that. Some say that is what Georges used to start purchasing the breweries."_

" _Indeed. That was most kind."_

She harrumphs, _"So everyone thought – except Georges. He was a rough child, just five years old when his father passed. Some of us thought that was a good thing – his father was a rough man as well. Some say he caused the accident with his sloppiness."_

" _The boy was abused?"_

Her voice lowers to a whisper, _"He would show up with bruises, more than a normal boy would – his mother as well. Still, he lost his father and seemed to idolize the man."_

" _So he wanted to live in Charles' house?"_

" _Indeed. He used to talk about a baby. How the baby had everything he should have had himself. He would lurk around the house. None of us knew much about the baby – the Madame had indeed been with child – no doubt about that, but the midwife left the house the night of his birth and never spoke of that night. She also stopped midwifery. None of us ever saw a baby and believed it had died."_

" _And?"_

" _And one day – Georges was spying and claimed he had seen a boy through a window – that his face was deformed. He began to spread the word that there was a monster living in the house. He said that was the boy's punishment for killing his father. He was completely out of control, the baby was born just after the accident."_

" _So he blamed the child?"_

" _Yes, got a group of townspeople together to kill the boy. They found an old dog outside and killed her instead. Then it all died down and no one ever heard talk of the child again. Some people said the Madame had placed him in a special school. Some said he never lived past babyhood and Georges was having fantasies."_

* * *

"The man appears to be unbalanced, Monsieur," Pere Mansart says. "I am sorry to have used the word monster – that was what Madame Eloise told me, I was trying to be accurate."

"Thank you, mon Pere," Erik says. "Tell me, did his mother have beautiful hair?"

"I did not know her, but asked for you, as you requested. Mme. Chartres said that she had beautiful hair – the color of ink that flowed in waves was the way she described it. Even as she grew older, she would wear it long, hanging down her back, only tying it back with a colorful ribbon from time to time."

"Have you ever spoken to him directly, mon pere?" Christine asks.

"Only once, when I first moved to Boscherville, I was doing a parish census and was visiting all the residents."

"What was your feeling?" she probes.

"He was gruff and did not wish to engage in conversation with me. Told me he was not a Catholic and would appreciate my not calling on him again." The priest shrugs. "Not the friendliest person, but nothing to alert me to anything criminal."

"You have been of great help," Erik says. "I appreciate your taking the time to come to see us directly."

"I need to go to rehearsal, Erik," Christine says. "Please join us, mon pere."

"My pleasure."

As they leave the office, Raoul is exiting Adele's office with Nadir.

Pere Mansart halts. "That is the young man from the mairie – on your wedding day."

"Yes," Christine says. "He is the Vicomte de Chagny."

"The Vicomte and I were rivals for the Madame's hand – a hand that I had the good fortune to win," Erik says as he lifts her hand to his lips.

"Ah, that makes sense. Has peace been made, if I may be so bold as to ask?"

Christine looks up at Erik. "Yes, peace has been made. He is going to help with our efforts to locate M. Robert."

"I will pray for a satisfactory end to all of this."

"You have our thanks." Christine touches her stomach.

The priest raises an eyebrow.

Christine nods.

"You have my blessing."

* * *

 **A/N – Thanks to everyone who has been following my story. Special thanks to "The English Phantom" for providing the name to Erik and Nadir's business: Phantom Security.**


	23. Compassion

COMPASSION

Christine makes her way down from the stage to the auditorium where Erik and Pere Mansart are seated. Adele, Nadir, Veronique and Andre walking down the aisle give her a round of applause for her rehearsal performance.

A bright smile lights her face as she joins the coterie, taking small bows and blowing kisses – until she sees Erik's frown. The maestro is not pleased. "What was wrong?" she asks, not waiting for him to speak.

"Are you certain you want to discuss this now?" Erik takes in all the eyes watching them, returning his gaze to her, he lifts his exposed eyebrow.

Looking at the ceiling, she scrunches her nose and mutters, "I suppose not."

En masse the group releases a sigh of relief. For them it was perfect and they are content to leave it at that.

"Come, look at this." He draws her forward with his hand, holding out a piece of paper for her to see.

"Andre just brought these from the printer – my drawing of M. Robert," Veronique tells her.

Christine takes the lithograph of the man who has been stalking the dancers. "This is wonderfully wrought" she says to Veronique, "You are incredibly gifted."

Veronique bows her head, a faint blush tinting her pale complexion. "Thank you."

"I know him. I have seen this face. But where?"

"Backstage? Here?" Erik asks.

"No, not here." She takes the seat next to him. "At least I do not believe so… Wait – where is Meg?"

"Did I hear my name?" Meg trills from the stage.

"You did," Adele tells her. "Can you come down, there is something we want you to see."

Meg finds Monique and grabs her by the hand, both young women sit on edge of the stage, slide down into the orchestra pit and run over to the others.

"What did you think of the rehearsal?" Meg asks excitedly. "This was the first real run-through with the entire cast, and everyone was so pleased at how well things went. It has been months..."

"I think you may want to wait until Erik is ready to give notes – when there is no public audience," Christine responds.

"Ewww, that bad?" Meg groans.

Erik rolls his eyes. "It was rough. You all know it was rough. As you yourself said, it was the first time in months that everyone was together for this opera. It will get better."

"Here, look at this, Meg." Christine holds out the drawing to her, Monique leans over to take a look for herself.

"Oh-oh, yes, that is he," Monique gasps, the color drains from her already pale face, her knees weaken threatening a fall. "When will I stop reacting this way?"

"In time, Mam'selle," Nadir says as he catches her, helping her to a seat next to Christine. "Sadly, the wounds of the mind take longer to heal than those of the flesh."

"I am so sorry that this has awakened such harsh memories for you," Christine says. "Not having seen him face to face – at least not here –your confirmation is most necessary – yours and Meg's. My feeling is that you were there, Meg…when I did see him. The idea that it was out of doors keeps coming back to me."

Meg stares at the likeness, her cheer from the rehearsal vanished. With a shudder, she hands the flyer back to Christine. "I remember." Her tone dull and lifeless. "He was at the mairie, the day you and Erik were married. By the carriages. Seeing him there startled me – he was watching the entrance. When he saw us come out, he turned away." Tears fill her eyes, her lower lip quivers. "I convinced myself that I was mistaken – I did not want him to be there. If he was not there, then my fears were unfounded."

Adele holds her arms open to her daughter.

"Oh, Maman, when is this going to be done?" she asks, accepting her mother's embrace.

Pere Mansart asks for a drawing. "This is Georges Robert. I can attest to that," he says. "A remarkable likeness, I might add, Madame." Stroking his chin, he squints his eyes to visualize the situation. "I was outside the magistrate's office and saw most everyone. As the day drew on, there were fewer and fewer people to notice. He was never inside." He closes his eyes for a moment, frowning. "Only outside, as you say, Mme. Christine – Mlle. Meg, by the coaches – a coachman, not a passenger," he declares. "Yes, I saw him when I arrived and again when we were leaving. It was one of those experiences of seeing someone familiar, but in the wrong environment, so you do not truly recognize them."

"We had our own coaches, so there was no reason to pay any mind to others," Nadir says. "He could have been waiting for us in the queue all day. There was no specific time posted for the wedding, was there?"

"No," Christine answers. "Erik made the appointment with the magistrate for the end of the day, but that was not public."

"Hide in plain sight," Erik mutters, "become one with the environment and no one will notice you."

"But the night he grabbed me, he was in a coach." Veronique reminds them. "He had a driver."

"Was it one of M. Corday's coaches that you saw, mon pere?" Andre asks.

"Who is M. Corday?" Erik asks.

"He has a lot of coaches – they are all painted in red, gold and black," he explains. "Sometimes when I am running errands or delivering messages, a coachman will let me ride with him. I think the one I saw the night Maman was taken had the number two on the back."

"Why did you not say something before this?" Veronique asks.

"I did not think it mattered. The man who took you was not driving the coach."

"He could have asked another driver to assist him," Nadir interjects. " _Let us have some fun with one of the Opera girls_ – something like that. We shall have to interview this M. Corday to see what type of records he maintains." He pats Andre on the head. "Good work, young man."

Andre beams. "Thank you, M. Nadir." He runs to his mother and hugs her around the waist. "I am sorry, Maman."

"I know, son, you are the best boy," she returns his hug, then hands him some of the flyers. "Why not take these and distribute them to the crew and company. Maybe someone can help you post a few throughout the backstage area."

"Everyone will know who this is," Andre says as he rushes off waving a handful of papers in his hands.

"I am pleased that Andre was able to help. His recollection was quite a surprise. Please do not mind that I sent him away – I do not like him hearing about that man any more than necessary." Veronique explains.

"Perfectly understandable, Madame, he has, however, proved to know quite a bit about the activities here at the Opera House – things that we might not otherwise have considered," Erik tells her. "Back to the topic at hand. Robert's attempt to follow Christine and myself from the cordonnier was in a chaise, which may be his personal vehicle."

"When he took me, he had a chaise as well," Monique says, tapping her fingers against her lips, moving her hand down to tug at the neckline of her costume, she pulls roughly at one of the ribbons that has come untied. "He came up from behind as I was walking home. He was just a voice. My friends had gone on ahead, I was running to catch up with them – they were not that far – none of us feared being accosted. It was still early. Dusk. Not completely dark.

* * *

" _Tiny dancer, all alone, are you not concerned?"_

" _Monsieur?"_

" _You are quite beautiful, you know that, do you not? Hair like newly polished copper. Eyes the color of bluebells. Someone might come along, just scoop you up and carry you away."_

" _Where are you? Who are you?"_

* * *

Everyone was always talking about the Opera Ghost. I thought it was he…you." She looks over to Erik. "I am sorry, Monsieur."

"Do not let that concern you, Monique. It was a natural supposition on your part," Erik says. "What then, if I may ask."

"He grabbed me – held a sweet-smelling rag over my nose and mouth with one hand, the other circled my waist. He was so much taller – larger than I. It felt as though I was being absorbed into him. He lifted me off the ground and threw me into the carriage as if I weighed nothing." The sound of her voice is a monotone, rhythmic and dull – her eyes focused on a past vision. "Then a blanket was thrown over my head – it smelled of the stable. He secured it in some way; I could not move my arms." A shake of her head breaks the spell. "That is what I recall from the immediate assault."

"Would you like some water?" Adele asks.

"No. Thank you."

"You did not tell me all this," Meg says.

"You would not let me," Monique's mouth curls. "When I brought it up, you would say – well, it is over now or something like that."

Meg lowers her eyes.

"It is all right, Meg," Monique says, reaching out to take her friend's hand. "You were frightened yourself. I do not blame you one bit."

"I am sorry," she says. "You are right, I was…am afraid."

Adele tightens her hold on her daughter.

Erik clears his throat, "So, then? You awoke? Chloroform is short-lived."

* * *

" _Wake up, tiny dancer."_

She lay on a small bed, even though the horse blanket was gone and her cloak was draped over her, the odor of the dung continued to assail her. Pure will forced her sluggish body to sit up.

" _Where are we?"_

" _Just a place I stay sometimes."_

A glance around the faintly lit room, a single lantern providing the only light, revealed a dresser, a small wooden table and chair. The windows, if there were any, were shrouded. He stood between her and the door.

A glass of water was shoved at her. _"Drink this, you will feel better."_

" _I am not thirsty."_

" _Of course you are,"_ he growled. _"Drink it – all of it."_

* * *

"There was a drug in the water – bitter, I could taste it."

"Laudanum, likely. He assaulted you?" Erik's tone is steady and quiet.

"Yes." Her head drops into her hands.

Meg says, "You do not have to tell us." The tone is defiant, her look dares Erik to refute her advice to Monique who sits still as a statue.

Monique raises her head, glaring at Meg. "I want to tell what happened – stop trying to silence me." Her voice cold and hard as ice. "You are not the one who was raped and imprisoned. Stop acting as if this is about you. All he did to you was touch your precious hair. He hacked mine off with a knife." The flash of blue eyes dared any of them to speak. "It is eating me up. I am afraid to go anywhere alone. I cannot continue to live with this inside of me."

Christine wraps her arms around Monique's small frame, she looks to Erik, _"What now?"_ A silent question.

Erik's eyes fill with compassion. What might have been different in his life had Javert not sodomized him? The first time he killed. The violence of that act still haunts his dreams. He hopes she will not suffer that fate. In response to Christine's unspoken question, he asks, "Do you remember it or did the drug provide some dulling of the experience?"

"I remember."

* * *

" _Tiny dancer, how sweet you are, how sweet and small and lovely."_

After those words, all she heard were the grunts and groans emitted from his alcohol tainted mouth as he covered her face and neck with wet kisses. His fat, calloused hands groped her body, touching her in places she herself avoided in fear of hellfire. Fighting was futile, there was no strength in her to stop him. Her dress was pulled up over head. Forcing her legs open with a rough fingers, finding her center, he thrust himself into her most private place over and over like a mindless beast.

" _Please,"_ she begged. Her mind was muddled, from the drink, from the pain – oh, God, the pain.

With one last growl, he lay panting on top of her, his full weight pressing her into the straw mattress. _"You will come to like it."_ He rolled off and pulled his trousers closed and tossed the vile blanket over her yet again.

Then it was morning – the black curtains had been pulled away from the windows – dawn was breaking. He sat in the chair watching her. _"Clean yourself. We shall have some food and then be on our way."_

* * *

"He handed me a rough cloth – there was a water pitcher and bowl on the dresser. I used the chamber pot. He had brought me some bread and cheese – a mug of bitter coffee. I was unable to eat anything, but swallowed the drink – I cared not if it was drugged. Then we left."

"Any idea of where you were?" Nadir asks.

Monique shakes her head. "In the country somewhere. It was a small town – an inn.

"You saw no one?" Erik queries.

"No. It was quite early – before dawn."

"Nadir?"

"It could have been the road to Rouen – there are a number of inns of all sorts – large…small – along the way."

"Father and I often stopped at places such as what Monique describes," Christine says. "Does it matter?"

"It could be the simply first place he came to or where he is living now. He did say he stayed there at times," Erik replies. To Monique, "Is there anything else you want to tell us to help you deal with this?"

She pulls away from Christine and shrugs, chin trembling. "It was just more of the same. I tried to keep track of time, although one day bled into another – I read – there were books. I practiced my dancing. I started counting sunrises and observed the moon's cycle. It was new when he took me – completely dark. Then went through one full cycle, and then to the next full moon. For a month and a half. After that he no longer bothered me – he seemed preoccupied. He would give me food, like a pet animal he needed to take care of, no human interaction – if that is what you could call what we had. I was grateful. There were two more new moons after that."

"You thought you were with child?" Christine asks gently.

"Yes, I did not have my epoque. When I told him, he punched me and threw me out of the house," she sighs. "It was over. It. Was. Over." Standing up, she shakes her body, loosening her muscles, then stretches each leg, pointing her toes before returning to her seat. "Then, as I told you, I found the church and Pere Mansart…"

The priest makes a small gesture with his hand, touching his chest, to identify himself to her.

"Oh, you are here – how?" she only just realizes he is present, so caught up in the story and Erik's hypnotic voice guiding her. "How good to see you again."

"My dear girl," Pere Mansart says. "That was you? I am so sorry. You look nothing like the wraith that came to us that night." Indicating Erik and Christine with his hand, he says, "I am a friend…an acquaintance of M. Saint-Rien and his wife."

"A friend to them, and friend to some of the rest of us, as well," Nadir opines. "It would appear that even as our circle expands, it tightens as well, not only bringing us closer as people, but also to solving this mystery."

"Is there anything you can add?" Erik asks the priest.

"No, just that this battered child appeared at the church – we were providing food for those in need. Mademoiselle said she had no need of food, but simply transport to Paris, which I arranged."

"I told you, M. Erik, he is bound by the seal of confession. Even now, he will not reveal what I told him." Monique smiles at the priest, then turning back to Erik, smirks, "You heard my story, which is all you need, I think, there is nothing he can add."

Erik nods at her mettle, unoffended by her bravado. "I see your grit, Mlle. Monique. You are a very strong young woman to have withstood that which you revealed to us. I am thankful that you had the ear of Pere Mansart for whatever else you may have experienced."

"I have been given hope by all of you and the possibility of a beau who is not troubled by my…mishap." The tears are gone – in their place a glowing face and smiling lips – lips that just recited a tale of horror.

Everyone is silent, taken aback by the swift change of topic and Monique's mood.

"A beau? Monique, that is wonderful, do we know him?" Christine asks, the first to recover.

"The Vicomte de Chagny."

Erik raises an eyebrow and eyes Adele, who avoids his look, choosing to bestow a forced smile on Monique.

"Really?" Christine cocks her head at Meg, who shrugs and ducks her head. Returning her gaze to the ballerina, she says, "That is lovely, Monique."

"You know him, do you not?" Monique asks Christine.

"Yes, I know him…we were childhood friends," Christine replies, folding her hands in her lap.

A quick assessment of the situation has Nadir cut off any further discussion by asking, "Do you think that we could take some time to review all that we have gathered in private, Erik?"

"I have some paperwork to do for the managers," Veronique says, straightening the flyers that Andre left with her and takes her leave.

Both Christine and Adele clear their throats, staring at the men.

Holding up his hand to halt what may quickly become a brouhaha, Erik says, "Allow me to give the rehearsal notes and we – Nadir, Christine, Adele and myself – can meet in Adele's office, if that is acceptable to you Madame Giry. The poor little office for our business is not set up for more than one or two."

Their huff evaded, Christine and Adele nod at one another and smile graciously at the men.

"I will prepare tea. Come along M. Khan, you can assist me," Adele says.

"As you wish, Madame." Nadir gives her a mock bow and a big smile as he reaches out to take her arm.

"Pere Mansart, please join us, your calm presence would be welcome," she adds. "You might also be able to add more information to what we now know."

His eyes flicker back and for between Adele and Nadir, unsure of his welcome.

"Please, Pere Mansart," Nadir says, the smile present, but diminished. "You have travelled a long way to impart your information, it is only fair that you continue to participate in this investigation. I doubt you will be much interested in hearing how this person or that made a late entrance or how the baritone sang such and such a note flat and needs to work on his falsetto."

Erik goes to the stage and gestures to the cast members to gather for notes.

Christine gestures for Meg to come over to where she and Monique are seated. "Your fear is very real, Meg. I suspect that Monique understands that," she looks to the other girl for agreement.

"Oh, yes, Meg, I am sorry for my harsh words to you," Monique says. "You have been such a good friend, offering me a place in your home and introducing me to Raoul. How could I be angry?"

Meg's relief is apparent on her face – the crease between her eyes disappears and she risks petting Monique's shoulder. "I am sorry I did not think of you, only my own needs." In a rush, she embraces the slender girl.

"We are friends, Meg. Friends forgive one another." Monique pats her lightly on the back, before shirking her touch.

Christine is troubled by the exchange, but the cast has gathered on stage and Erik is riffling his papers of notes – there is no time to pursue the discussion. _At least they are speaking_.

* * *

"You did not say what the problem was with my performance – my singing," Christine says as she and Erik walk from the auditorium to Adele's office.

"Some of the notes were a bit…um…ragged."

"What does that mean – um…ragged – sharp…flat?"

"I believe that your illness this morning irritated your throat, making it raw. There was a rasp to the lower tones, and some strain apparent when you sang the cadenza. That is all."

"All? That seems to be quite a bit – what about the middle voice? You could not say that when I asked earlier?" She turns him to face her. "Or just now in the cast meeting? You have never been one to hold back in your critiques – however harsh. I do not wish to be pampered – I thought we had settled that."

"Calm down. The issues did not appear to be caused by technique. During our practices at home, your voice soared and was perfection. It was the physical strain. Would you have me tell everyone you were vomiting?" He asks. "Or why we believe you were indisposed?"

"Hmmm, those are reasonable questions," she allows. "This is neither the proper time nor place for such disclosures, I suppose."

He chuckles, "So for once I am right."

"For once," she concedes with a sheepish smile. "Madame and Nadir know, though – she gave you the herring did she not?"

"She put the jar in one of the baskets with the shoes," he confesses.

"You should be grateful," Christine laughs.

"I am – oh, believe me, I am."

"Was I truly horrible?"

"Horrible." He plants a kiss on her nose.

"How can we deal with my throat?"

"Lemon, honey and hot tea to sip on – gargle salt water," he advises. "No singing for at least 24 hours – I should not have allowed you to sing at all today. In any event, these methods should take care of the current problem. To control the nausea – crackers at bedside to lessen the feeling of illness and, hopefully, stop any regurgitation."

She puts her arms around his neck, pulling him down so she can kiss him. "I am the most fortunate woman in the world, my darling man."

He loops his long arms around her waist. "So this news of Monique and Raoul does not disturb you? I wondered at your response." His breath bated – back stiffening in apprehension of what she will say.

"I was surprised," she says, relaxing her arms, her hands drop to re-tie his cravat and fuss with the collar of his shirt.

"That is all?" He presses. "I sensed more."

"I suppose I felt a bit of jealousy – or vanity, perhaps," she admits, looking up at him through her long lashes. "It is actually rather amusing."

"How so?" He sways her back and forth, maintaining his loose embrace, his hands clasped behind her, resting on her bustle.

"Well, he was ready to kill both of us for love after being rejected – in what has proven to be a very smart move on my part." She grins. "Then, rather than grieve for any reasonable amount of time – a year at least – losing the love of his life and all – he takes up with a tart from the ballet. Not that Monique is a tart, but she could have been. It just seemed…rude of him."

Erik bursts out laughing.

"You are not upset that for a brief moment I was hurt?"

"For that same brief moment. Ultimately, it only confirmed what a child he was and still is, notwithstanding his offer of help."

"Really? In what way?" She stops the sway.

"He sees himself as some knight in shining armor, rescuing damsels in distress. He misjudged you and, I suspect, he is misjudging Monique. You are both women of substance, stronger than he can ever hope to be. Neither of you needs rescuing, it is he who requires a life raft – the Navy is probably the correct place for him."

"Is that so?" Her arms find his neck again, recommencing their stationary dance.

"It is so. It was you who rescued me and, if he is of good fortune, she will save him." With that he bends, joining his lips to hers. "Now let us see if we can make something of all this business about M. Robert."

* * *

Even the larger office loses dimension with the presence of the three men and two women. Adele takes her place behind her desk, Nadir sitting on the visitor's chair. Christine and Pere Mansart share the chaise longue. Erik stands as is his wont when with groups of people, controlled by a latent energy that never quiets.

"What I found of note was that he stopped abusing her," Nadir says. "It makes no sense."

"From what she said, I was under the impression that she submitted to him to avoid further violence," Adele comments. "That is what many women do, even in marriages – just lay back and let the man do what he wants and be done with it."

"Madame!" Christine exclaims. "That cannot be true."

"Your comment tells me that you are fortunate in regard to the physical elements of a marriage – many women are not," Adele smirks, casting a side eye at Erik. "Most nobility marriages are ones of convenience – often a burden to both parties where intimacy is concerned. Our ballet rats have it even worse – they learn soon enough to just be passive. I suspect that Monique took that route. Perhaps her passivity bored him."

"So what she told you in confession had to do with that – her allowing him to have his way with her with no promise of marriage or real consent?" Christine asks the priest.

He shakes his head. "Madame, I cannot speak of Mlle. Monique's confession…"

"Yes," Adele continues, ignoring Pere Mansart's comment. "She is likely ashamed about that – that she did not fight him or try to run away."

"How do you explain the complete change in her today? One minute she describes the horror of being assaulted, the next she is coyly exuberant about having a beau, and not just any beau, but a vicomte." Christine puzzles.

"Relief at confessing something painful." Erik turns a thoughtful look to the priest. "There are times when a situation forces you to submit rather than fight in order to survive." A brief moment has him focused on some memory before returning to the present. "We need not know the specifics of her imprisonment or how she is recovering. My lack of knowledge about women prevents me from speculating further."

Adele snorts.

"Well, it was definitely odd – as if she was two different people in the same body. Her reaction to Meg was so angry, but then, after you left, she was perfectly cordial – cool, all the emotion tucked nicely back inside."

"I will keep a close watch on her, what she experienced, well…" Adele says. "I think it was a good thing Meg was confronted – she lives in her own little world too much and actually hearing of Monique's trauma might help her grow up." She brushes some imaginary dust from her dress. "As for Monique, I hope this new friendship with the vicomte is helpful to both of them. His disposition is not the most stable, however."

"He has asked to call on her?" Christine asks.

"Yes – as a friend. Two lost souls. I had no heart to refuse him."

Nadir stands up and challenges Erik for pacing room. "They will work things out. At the moment, romantic issues are the last thing we need to be talking about" He dismisses that discussion with a wave of his hand. "The timing – what about the timing?"

"I have been trying to line up all the events in my head and I believe I have the answer."

"And what is it?" Christine asks.

"The story that Mme. Chartres told Pere about my mother leaving a trust for the family reminded me of a meeting I had with my attorney – he was actually my mother's solicitor, it seemed expeditious to retain him."

"What meeting – not the one I attended with you?" Nadir asks.

"When I was building the new apartment – during the time the Opera House was closed down – I began looking at my financial situation. Money had never been relevant, but now I wanted to know what I might have to offer if Christine accepted me."

"People still believed you to be the cause of the chandelier falling and you were wondering about Christine accepting you?" Nadir asks.

"I knew the truth. Adele knew the truth. You most certainly knew the truth. It was just a matter of making others aware of it," Erik sneers. "May I continue, since those events are of no consequence anymore?"

"By all means."

* * *

" _Your mother's estate was yours, were you to claim it – which, of course, you did. May I ask why that was written into her will?_

" _No."_

" _Very well. The estate is quite sizable, thanks to your grandfather."_

" _Get to the point."_

" _There were some trusts set up – for her friend, Marie, who you told me held the papers for you, the church and other charities. When Marie passed away, we were advised and the payments to her stopped. There was one other family set up to receive a lifetime allowance – people named Boudreaux. A mother and son – the heirs of a man who was also killed in the accident when your father died."_

" _So?"_

" _The woman, Celine Boudreaux, died ten or so years ago, but we were never notified even though that was a stipulation. I discovered this when we did an audit."_

" _Meaning what?"_

" _The sum was being paid into a single account. Your mother, however, indicated that the money be divided between the two beneficiaries. If one died, the money was to be reduced by half. We were instructed that the allowance be sufficient to cover reasonable living expenses for two adults, with the sum to be increased accordingly as costs increased. In the event the son married, an additional amount was to be added for the wife and progeny if there was any product of the marriage."_

" _And this was not monitored?"_

" _No."_

" _Should I deduct this error from your fees? I imagine she provided for you as well._

" _I would not blame you if you did and, yes, my firm has been amply provided for."_

" _So the son has been doing quite well these ten years?"_

" _We made the adjustment as soon as it was discovered. Georges Robert Boudreaux was sent a letter advising him that the trust would be reduced by half if he could not prove a marriage to justify his still receiving two shares."_

" _I am certain that was a shock – an even greater shock might have been to ask him to return the excess he had been sent, which I assume was included in your letter. Was he advised that civil charges could be brought against him?_

" _Uh, not exactly. He was advised that he was in breach of the stipulations of the trust and could be pursued for damages. That no decision had been made in that regard."_

" _You gave this advice on your own?"_

" _The trust indicated that the monies were being paid because of the nature of the loss, i.e., a husband and father was no longer present because of a presumed error on the part of the company he worked for and indirectly by the overseer of the work – your father. It did not appear that your mother would have wished further harm come to the family."_

" _You did not know my mother – at least in that way. That said, I suppose you may be right. The intention of the trust was to help him, not throw him into poverty at some point, even due to his own greed. I am not certain how wise it was for my mother to set up this trust in the first place, but what is done is done."_

" _He has been leasing the Boscherville house these past ten years under the name Georges Robert, so the money has been returned, in a sense."_

" _He has been living rent free."_

" _Yes."_

" _Has he responded to your letter?"_

" _Not as yet."_

" _I will consider how we can rectify this."_

" _I am sorry, Monsieur."_

" _I am sure you are. You may be even sorrier when I decide how to deal with your error. Please let me know when he contacts you."_

* * *

"Georges Robert Boudreaux?" Nadir asks. "He used his first and middle name so as not to connect the inheritance with the lease of the house."

"The name meant nothing to me at the time. Even when it was brought up recently, it sounded familiar, but I never made the connection. Pere Mansart's chat with his parishioner turned out to be very informative."

"God bless gossips," Adele remarks. "Do you think that he was trying to find a bride after his mother's death and could not? Perhaps he took the women with the intent of marrying them so he could maintain the trust fund."

"And kill them if they say no to his proposal?" Erik says contemptuously.

"That is not funny, Erik," Adele scolds.

"So M. Robert is actually M. Boudreaux?" Christine asks. "Why did you not know this, mon pere?"

"I had come to the Boscherville parish after his mother's death, my first contact with him was the census I told you about. When I asked about Georges Robert – everyone knew to whom I was referring," the priest explains. "It did not occur to me that those were only his Baptismal names, that Robert was not his surname."

"That makes sense," Christine says, "I did not mean to imply that you were not telling us something."

"No harm done, Madame."

"Do you think he really owns those breweries?" she asks Nadir.

"Doubtful," Nadir responds. "Shame on us for not checking that bit of information – he did well in spreading what I suspect is a gross lie."

"It gave him access to the girls," Adele says. "He had to tell the managers something to visit with them – meaning, he had to be rich. Those toads. If we check the records more closely, we will likely find he has not given a sou to the Opera House."

" _And_ I have been supporting him financially for the past ten years – I begrudge him nothing my mother intended – it was her money to give – but the fraud is – well, fraud. _And_ he burned down my house." In a quieter tone, " _And_ he murdered my dog."

"So the timing of his actions centers on his trust fund being reduced by half and no longer being able to continue with the lifestyle he adopted," Nadir says.

"Not just that – he may believe that all the money would stop and he would have to pay back his mother's share. No wonder he hates you, Erik," Christine says.

"Yes, my dear. He commits the sin and blames me," Erik says. "You are the most precious thing in my life – thus he decides to kidnap you. However terrible that event was for her, I am glad he took Veronique that night."

"I doubt he intended to keep you, Christine," Nadir says. "I suspect it was to be a kidnapping for ransom. His lust evolved from sex to money."

"What a sad man he is," she says.

"How so," Adele asks. "He seems purely evil to me."

"Think of it. All of his life he has been envious of Erik. The only thing he could focus on was what Erik had in terms of wealth. He had no idea of his pain or what his life became after he ran away. Even when he had no need to be concerned about money, he still hated Erik, not appreciating what a gift he had received."

"My life, with a few notable exceptions, until these recent days, was to be the object of inexplicable hatred from others," Erik comments, his tone ironic.

"You are taking this rather well, my friend," Nadir comments. "In other times, I would expect you to be railing against him and wishing for his head."

"Oh, I am wishing for his head, but not for myself – with the exception of some money, and even that is being compensated – my attorney has come to an agreement. No. It is for the harm he did to Monique and Veronique and who knows what other women he has abused? I want his head for what he thought about doing to Meg and my wife."

"Please, Monsieur Erik, you do not intend to kill him?" Pere Monsart pleads.

"No, mon pere – only in self-defense or defense of my loved ones – even then, only if that is the sole solution," Erik tells him, casting a look bordering on affection at Nadir. "He will pay, however, for the damage he has caused to so many."

"Our plans need to be re-evaluated. He is desperate now – this new information suggests that," Nadir says. "The carriage franchise may be helpful in locating him. That said, it may be wiser to entice him to come to us, rather than trying to run him to the ground. That would give us more control over the situation."

"It would still be helpful to know where he is hiding. But, yes, you are correct – he must be in an arena we control when we take him down." Erik says. "This may be where the Vicomte can help."

"Raoul? How?" Christine asks.

"I need to think on this a bit longer, but, yes, this will give him the opportunity to redeem himself."

"I thought you had forgiven him," Adele says.

"Did you now?"

"Erik!" Christine says.

"Yes, I have forgiven him," he concedes. "The plan I have in mind requires his participation."

"What is it?" Nadir asks.

"In good time. In good time," Erik smirks. "You will like it, I assure you."

"More pranks?" Adele chides him.

"You always liked the pranks, Adele, why the scolding tone?"

"I am afraid, Erik." Christine says. "I do not want anyone more to be hurt. I think that is what Madame is concerned about, too."

Erik kneels in front of her and takes her hands in his. "I swear to you that no one will be injured. There is too much at stake – especially for us and for our child." He presses one hand against her stomach.

"Oh," says Pere Mansart. "How wonderful."

Erik smiles up at him. Turning back to Christine, he says, "I am hoping that the plan I am creating is so clever that he will not even realize he has been captured."

"I hope you are right," Nadir groans.

"Do you doubt me, Daroga, after all we have been through?"

"I suppose not," he laughs. "The good old days?"

"If that is how you wish to describe them."

"Mirrors, traps and magic?" Nadir asks.

"Of course."

Christine, Adele and the priest frown.

"The reason I am alive now, my loving wife and friends, is thanks to mirrors, traps and magic," he says. "Our obstacle was we did not know who this man was, or why he was doing what he was doing. This information allows the daroga and me to come up with a plan to deal with him."

"I am to be included?" Nadir asks.

"Of course. You, Darius, the Vicomte and I are going to bring this dog to heel."

* * *

" _Monsieur Erik, here is the poster of the kidnapper." Andre hands him the flyer._

 _Erik takes it and throws it on the ground – the drawing is of him – the scourge that is his face drawn in exquisite detail._

" _Am I now to be prey to your lust?"_

 _Christine holds a bleeding head out to him._

" _This face that condemns me to wallow in blood, has also denied me the joys of the flesh._

" _She will forget nothing," Nadir taunts._

" _But will forgive anything," Erik replies. "You told me she would forgive anything."_

 _Nadir just laughs._

 _The poster floats above him growing in size – he attempts to bat it away, but it takes wing and lands at Christine's feet._

" _Your haunted face holds no horror for me now."_

" _It is the Opera Ghost," Monique screams at her. "Run. The Vicomte says he kills."_

" _The world showed no compassion to me."_

 _Andre's face morphs into his – the face of his youth. "Beware the Phantom of the Opera."_

" _You gave her the herring," Adele sneers. "Did you think that would save you?"_

" _The tears I might have shed for your dark fate, grow cold and turn to tears of hate."_

" _Did you believe God would forgive you?" Pere Mansart asks._

" _I do not care about God. Where is Christine?"_

"Christine. What. No." Erik kicks off the blankets and sits up, dizzy from a rush of blood to his head. His heart races, pounding against his chest as he gasps for air. Perspiration runs in driblets down his face, his chest, thighs – his night shirt is damp and sticks to his skin. "Christine. I shall not harm you. I shall not kill him. Go. Go. I am sorry," he sobs, arms flailing at the fading vision of his dream. "I love you. I am so sorry."

"Erik. Wake up. You are dreaming," Christine kneels on the bed behind him, wrapping her arms around him, stroking his chest, pressing her body close, kissing his head murmuring, "I am here. You are safe."

The pressure on his chest lessens as he comes to full consciousness, the haggard breathing slowly returns to normal. "I am no better than Robert or Boudreaux or whatever his name is."

"What are you talking about?"

"I was ready to kill him and take you – rape you"

"What? Who? Raoul?" she asks. "No, that is not true. That would never happen."

"It would have, had you not…shown your compassion." His fingers press into his thighs.

"When I kissed you the first time – yes, perhaps it was initially compassion, but as I kissed you, I realized that I loved you – I told you that, Erik." She moves to sit on her heels next to him, pulling his head to her breasts stroking his face as she rocks him.

"My intention…" He straightens and examines her face – that beautiful face filled with concern for him. The face that looks at him without fear or judgment. Could she be telling him the truth?

"Whatever the intention, it did not – would not happen. That is not who you are."

"But…"

"Erik, you are still shy of touching me. Today you kissed me first – that never happened before – not on the lips, in any event. You always hesitate – wait for me to take the lead. You never initiate our special loving. To suggest that you might have raped me is simply inconceivable."

"I do not want to offend you," he mutters.

"My darling man, I have no reference for what is considered good or bad – right or wrong with special loving." She rests her head on his shoulder. "You appear to know things…"

"Books. The gypsies were less than private with their sexual antics."

"I, too, observed activities backstage, not always turning away," she admits. "What I am trying to say is, I am so happy to be with you. I love how I feel with you. I love how you feel against my body when I hold you. I love when you touch me and kiss me and enter me. I love when you are inside me and we are one. You give me such joy, I can hardly speak of it."

"You are not sorry then – you forgive me for that horrid night?"

Rolling her eyes, she slaps his arm. "What did I just say?"

"Hearing Monique's experience reminded me of what happened between us – with Raoul. My dream took me back to that time."

"It is the past." Hiking up her nightgown, she slides a leg over his lap settling in front of him. Taking his face in her hands, she draws him forward, smiling at his ever-present resistance until, enticing him by brushing her tongue along his lips, he opens to her. The rest of his body ultimately responding to her coaxing.

"Christine, I love you."

"Erik, I love you back."


	24. Modifications

MODIFICATIONS

Christine raises herself up on her elbows, watching as Erik sets a mahogany breakfast bed tray on the bench at the foot of the bed.

"Morning tea, my dear, how are you feeling today?" He adjusts her pillows so that she can sit up, then places the tray over her lap.

"Not too bad." A sad smile contradicts her statement, she wiggles a bit to get more comfortable. "What are these?" Christine picks up a cracker in the shape of a lion from the dish – the non-smile transforms into a grin.

" _Animals_ – they call them – or animal biscuits…crackers…something like that." he replies. "When you were at rehearsal yesterday, I did some shopping. They were at the patisserie – we were running low on macarons and fresh baguettes. They are a novelty item from England. I thought you might like them to help with your nausea – they are not as sweet as your favorite cookies, so might lie on your stomach more easily late at night and early in the morning – and they are rather amusing."

She bites the head off the lion. "I feel a bit wicked, but it is delicious." After eating a few more, the plate is offered to Erik.

He picks up an elephant and nibbles on the trunk. "These are quite nice. Do you think this will be a good substitute from the other crackers we tried?"

"Goodness, yes, I could eat the entire plateful – and feel better already."

"Good, then I will keep them stocked in the larder with the pickled herring!" He turns to leave.

"Erik?"

'Yes, my dear – what is it?"

"We have been so busy – life has carried us away on a wave of so much activity and there has been so little time just to be quiet with one another."

"That is true. What has it been, six-seven weeks since that night when I kid…"

"When we declared our love."

"When we declared our love…you are a dear girl…"

Her eyes flash.

"Woman – so much a woman," he corrects himself. "So many years of my life, in despair and full of hate and loneliness, wiped clean by your love." Tears well up in his eyes.

"Come, sit by me."

Moving the tray over to one side, he sits facing her, taking her hand in his, pressing it to his lips. "You are distressed about something? This business with M. Robert?"

"Yes, that," she admits. "I fear what he might do – to you, to all of us."

"Nadir and I have a plan that I will share with you, once it is settled. I am not doing this on my own."

"Promise?"

"Nadir would not let me and Darius would not let him," Erik jokes. "The Vicomte is another story entirely, but his concern for Monique far outweighs any hostility he may still feel towards me."

"What is the plan? Not even a hint?"

"I believe you will find it amusing once our plotting is done." He stands up. "Do you wish to rest a bit longer? I am concerned that you are getting enough sleep. I do not wish this opera to wear you down."

"I am fine – it is not as though I have an illness – just brief discomfort. You can remove the tray. The crackers were perfect. I do think I will stay in bed for just a bit longer," she says, lying back onto the pillows. "Today we are doing costume fittings, so we start late and shall finish early."

He takes the tray.

"Erik? There _is_ something else. What I really wanted to discuss with you."

"All right."

"Could we visit my father's grave?" The appeal in her eyes darkens the aquamarine to gray, the light absent, her normally full lips a straight line.

His spine freezes, evoking a shiver to flood through his body, his stomach in a knot. "But, of course." What was this about? Why such a sense of apprehension. He has actually been planning to raise the issue himself – however, now that she has brought it up, he is actually frightened. "Today?"

She nods. "I want him to meet you in a better way than the last time I was there…" she says, "we were there."

"That was a…difficult night." The only time he despised her – wanted to hurt her. The betrayal was more than he could bear – pushing him to a darkness even he had never experienced. The devil took over his soul that night. There was no desire on his part to revisit those feelings of loss, desolation and pure hatred.

Her eyes seek his, but they are fastened on the ceiling, examining the shadows and light created by the small lamps on the nightstands. "I am sorry," she says.

"You did what you felt was correct," he says. "My behavior was not exactly proper." Standing in the middle of the room holding the breakfast tray, an awkwardness overcomes him recalling those times months ago, all the comfort of recent weeks vanished. "I wish I had been a better man for you then. I did not know how to be. Ironically, at this moment, I do not know how to be." He finally turns his eyes to face hers.

"Come here, please," she says, holding a hand out to hm.

The emotions swirling within, have him welded in one spot, he stares blankly at the bed tray. Searching the room for a place to put it down – he settles on the bench. Returning to the bedside, he moves the bedding aside to sit next to her.

Christine lifts up her arms and he bends down to rest his head against her breasts. "I am sorry," she repeats. "You deserved better than what I did that night. I went to the graveyard to speak to my father because I was confused – there was no one else. You had become my confidant and I turned away from you - listening to others who did not know you, as I did. I did betray you."

He pulls away from her. "No."

"Yes. I did. And I am ashamed of that," she insists, putting her fingers against his lips to keep him from speaking. "Worse, it happened at my father's grave. He would have been so angry with me."

"Christine, that is folly," Erik says. "I sincerely doubt that your father would have approved of me or my behavior – using your grief to insinuate myself into your life. If he were to be angry, I am certain the rage would be directed at me."

"Then you are not giving him credit for knowing people," she scolds. "There is a belief that when you visit someone's grave, the soul of the person must come back to attend the visit," she says. "So he was there when I hurt you. And, yes, he knew your feelings then as well. He must be allowed to know how much I truly love you and your love for me. He must also know about the child of our love."

A sense of relief floods him, replacing the fear. His belief in past souls returning to their graves when visited was essentially non-existent – but in this case, he was not so sure. The relaxation of his anxiety came from the awareness that he no longer lives in the shadow of her father. Part of him believed that she still saw him not so much as a ghost, but through the eyes of a ghost – an extension of a ghost. "Then we shall visit your father today – if that will ease your heart."

"It will," she says.

Erik smooths her hair away from her face then runs his thumb across her upper lip. "Your mouth is so beautiful – a rosebud. I could spend hours just watching you talk and sing, especially those songs you create in your sleep." He bends over to kiss her, gently at first, then with a greater intensity. "Thank you," he whispers against her lips, testing his tongue against them. They part easily with the pressure.

Having always allowed Christine to take the lead, fearful that she might still reject him or that he was imposing himself on her, he revels in the new freedom he feels after this conversation about her father. Aware that through her acceptance of him, he has the beloved man's permission to love his daughter.

"I am yours," she whispers in response. "I will always be yours."

* * *

Nadir downs the dregs of coffee from one of the delicate china cups from her collection Adele insists on using for their meals. He much prefers the crockery mugs at his own apartment, partly because he is always fearful that he will break a piece of her precious dinnerware – mainly because at home he would not have to drink three cups to satisfy his taste for the bitter brew. Nevertheless, small price to pay for this welcome development in his life.

"Where are the girls?" he asks. "It's quiet as a tomb in here."

"I sent them to get some fruit. I could not bear the idea of one more breakfast of just bread and eggs and cheese – with the opening so near, I have not had time to shop," Adele answers as she brushes her hair, only a few silver streaks at her temples highlighting the black mane.

"Here, allow me," Nadir motions her over, standing to give her his chair.

Handing him the boar-bristle brush and placing a wide-toothed comb on the table, she sits down, presenting herself for his ministrations.

"It is sad that you choose to hide this beauty from the world," he says, drawing through her tresses with long strokes, smoothing the waves and curling the ends over his fingertips. "You should simply tie it back with red ribbons to match your petticoat and those new slippers."

"I have passed the age when anyone notices anything about how I look," she retorts.

"You mock me and my knowledge of what is lovely and what is not?"

"Not at all," she smiles, "I appreciate your good taste. I am merely aware that most men, people, actually, fail to see a woman after she reaches a certain age. Even our Erik."

"Ah, so you did have an attraction for him?"

"Perhaps, at first," she admits, "but he was so broken, the most he would accept was friendship and even that pushed his boundaries." She turns in her chair to face him. "You, of all people, should know that."

"True, enough," Nadir admits as he puts down the brush to pick up the comb and sections her hair to create the plaits she favors. "I also do not believe that his attraction to Christine has anything to do with age, unless you consider her to be the elder," he chortles. "Where are your pins and combs?"

A handful of hair accessories are retrieved from a pocket in her dressing gown and placed on the table.

They retire to their own thoughts as Nadir completes her coiffure. "I do like this style much better," he says, standing back to look at his creation. "A bit of softness around the face, not so severe, but still what you seem to prefer."

"I will advise you when I can see it for myself," she snorts.

A knock on the door startles them.

"Who might that be at this time of day?" Adele says, pulling her robe around her.

"I shall find out," Nadir says. "Go change your clothes."

He walks to the door and opens the security window. "Good lord, man, what are you doing here?" He disarms the alarms and opens the door to Raoul.

"Is Monique here?" he asks.

"She is shopping with Meg at the green grocer," Nadir responds, stepping back to allow the younger man to pass. "They should be back shortly."

Raoul paces the room, rubbing his hands up and down his sides.

"Sit down," Nadir orders. "You act like you are being bitten by lice. I am starting to scratch just watching you."

Raoul's face shifts from angst to annoyance, but acquiesces to the demand, sitting on the edge of the sofa, thrusting his hands between his knees to keep them still.

Adele re-enters the room, donned in the gray dress from the wedding. Dark eyes bright as she primps her hair, touching the soft waves Nadir created along the sides of her face. "I like it."

"You look absolutely lovely," he says. Pointing to the blonde young man sitting on the couch, he says, "Our visitor."

"Raoul, what are you doing here? We were not expecting you so early," Adele says.

Nadir's eyes narrow, questioning her comment.

"He was to come by later to take Monique to luncheon, then to costume fittings," she answers the unspoken question.

"I saw him – just now – M. Robert," Raoul says. "He was driving by this building."

"Did he see you?" Nadir asks, going to the window to check the street.

"No, I was in a carriage going in the other direction."

"So you were surveilling the apartment as well?" Nadir challenges him.

"I suppose I was," he admits, "but it appears it was a good thing."

The sound of giggles outside the door stops the discussion.

After a few moments of lock jiggling, Meg pushes the door open and the two young women rush in with their shopping baskets.

"Raoul?" they say in unison.

"You are early," Monique continues rushing over to him, shoving her basket at Meg.

Meg takes the baskets into the kitchen.

"You look upset, are you all right?" She joins him on the settee, placing one hand over his, carding his hair with the other.

He lifts the hand holding his to his lips and kisses it. The girl blushes as the two lock eyes, pale blue sky meeting blue-gray ocean.

Nadir and Adele bend into one another, smiling in spite of themselves at the young couple. Nadir sneaks a peck at her cheek, bringing a flush to the older woman's face.

Returning with a bowl of apples and pears that she places on the table, Meg asks, "Why is no one talking?" Picking up a green apple, she crosses to the arm chair and plops down. "Why are you here, Raoul?"

"He saw Robert – driving past the apartment," Nadir tells the girls.

"Oh." Monique pales, pressing a hand to her breast.

Raoul puts an arm around her.

"With all due respect for your experience with him, Mam'selle, I doubt he was looking for you…" Glancing at Meg, he adds, "Nor you."

"Christine?" Adele suggests.

"Possibly, or, more likely Erik, if anyone," Nadir replies. "Or anyone – he could just be driving along a well-trafficked street."

"That is true," Adele says, "We are just all on edge."

"The good news is that he is in town and likely close by," Nadir tells them. "Raoul – Erik and I planned to ask your help in a private meeting, however, so long as you are here, it will save time…"

"What do you want me to do?" He asks. "I will do anything to rid the world of that monster."

"I am not certain it will come to that, but you may be the best person to make contact with him," Nadir explains. "Erik, Darius and I are, shall we say, too obviously unfriendly toward him – not to mention we three will always stand out in a crowd."

"I suppose I should be grateful to be useful to you and the crea…Erik," Raoul sneers.

"M. le Vicomte, whatever opinion some of us have of you is the result of your own behavior," Adele retorts. "Whatever opinion you have of some of us is not our concern. Erik is a dear friend, a family member, if you will. Please do not act the victim here, particularly in front of your young lady. It is not the truth of the situation, nor is it seemly and will not end well should you continue."

Raoul's ears turn bright red, a chuff of air is released from tight lips, nostrils flare.

"Everyone in life deserves to be given opportunities to regain the regard of others," Nadir tells him. "Erik and Christine want nothing more than for you to restore yourself in your own eyes. They hold no grievance against you, so I suggest you respond in kind."

"What are they talking about, Raoul?" Monique asks. "I thought you only knew Christine from your childhood."

Adele raises her eyebrows. "See what you started?"

Meg bites into her apple, watching the little drama being played out. A smirk curves her lips, she exchanges a look with Monique – her mouth pursed – and shrugs.

Raoul returns his attention to Monique, the flush of anger fading, with a glance at Adele and Nadir, he says, "The night that Christine made her debut as Elissa, I was there. It was the first time I had seen her in many years and wished to resume our friendship. Over a period of months, we became closer – I thought a bit more than friends – but she was also being…taught by…Erik, and had a friendship with him as well."

Nadir returns to his seat at the table, interrupting Raoul's story. "You do not have to discuss this in our presence."

"There is no desire to pry into your personal business with Monique, nor to judge you," Adele agrees as she joins Nadir at the table.

Monique frowns at them, then looks back to Raoul. "Christine and Erik are married. I do not understand…" She stops, her eyes widen and her mouth forms an "o". "I believe I do understand." She touches his cheek with her hand, smiling at him. "She chose him and you were upset."

"You could say that," Adele mutters under her breath.

Raoul's eyes narrow as he casts a sharp glance at her. Continuing his explanation to Monique, he says, "Then I met you and I am so very happy that things had worked out in the way they did." His regard shifts once again to Adele and Nadir, jutting his chin in the air.

They roll their eyes.

"As am I," Monique responds, turning his face back to hers, forcing him to look at her. "We both needed someone to help us heal from our wounds."

Meg takes another bite of her apple, the crunch bringing everyone back to the present. "Well, what I would like to know is when I am going to find a beau for myself. Everyone else seems to have done so," she pouts. An idea strikes her. "What about Darius? He is quite handsome and everyone seems to trust him."

Nadir coughs to the point where Adele has to pound him on the back for fear he will choke on his own spittle.

"I do not believe that he would be an appropriate suitor for you," Adele replies, finding it difficult to control a laugh threatening to bubble up from her throat.

"Well, why not?" Meg probes. "He is not too old – he is younger that both you and Erik, Nadir. Besides, I have my own money, so that is not an issue."

"Darius is a eunuch," Nadir blurts out.

"Well, so are you," Meg retorts.

"What?" Nadir exclaims. "I most certainly am not."

"That is the truth, Meg," Adele concurs. "Wherever did you get that idea?"

"They are both from Persia, are they not?"

"Meg," Monique interjects, "a eunuch is a man who has been…castrated. It has nothing to do with where he comes from."

Raoul raises an eyebrow at Monique's comment.

"He had parts of his male organs removed as a child so he could be a guard to the women at the palace," Nadir further explains. "So he would not be able to…"

"So he would not want to be with a woman?" Meg asks.

"Well, not necessarily, to be honest, I do not know," Nadir responds. "I have never sought that sort of information from him. But I have heard that in some instances that a partial castration does not necessarily work in the way that some have assumed," he sputters. "I really do not feel that this is a proper topic for conversation in mixed company." He looks to Adele for support, but she is covering her mouth to conceal her amusement.

"So he _might_ be interested in courting me?" Meg presses him further.

"I suppose you would have to ask _him_ ," Nadir concludes.

"Good. I think I will," she says, taking a final bite her apple, tossing the core in the air, catching it, dropping it on the table then performs her signature chasse to her bedroom, closing the drape behind her with a flourish.

Nadir and Adele exchange a look and burst out laughing.

"I should like to eavesdrop on that conversation," Nadir chuckles.

"Well, I would not mind him a bit as a son," Adele says. "He's far more suitable than many men prowling around this city right now – as we well know." She cannot help but look at Monique.

"Back to our priorities – Raoul, can we count on your assistance?" Nadir asks.

"Yes, yes, of course," He waves his hand to interrupt the shift in conversation. "One moment, please, though. Monique, how do you know what a eunuch is?"

"Tutoring – my father insisted all of us study the history and customs of other countries," she responds. "He said it was part of our role in society to be educated and role-models for our countrymen."

"Role in society? But I thought…"

"Thought what?" Monique asks. "That I was one of the impoverished ballet rats?" She laughs. "No, dearest Raoul. My father is a stickler about money and quite strict – acts as if we are on the verge of poverty, but he is a Baron of Belgium. You never asked and I believed it to be of no interest or necessity to discuss it with anyone. We are of the family Boisschut – duBois is my stage name. He only allowed me to come to Paris to study dance because I tormented him about it day and night."

All three stare at the girl dumbfounded at this revelation.

"That is why you did not want your family to know about M. Robert," Adele says.

"Exactly. He would have demanded I return immediately and that is not what I want for my life," she answers. "Like you, Raoul, I am not terribly impressed with the nobles. However, it is nice to have the money and name behind me if I need it."

"You are more amazing than I could even imagine," Raoul says. "I confess that I was concerned about proposing marriage to you because of your status – not because of my feelings, but my brother is quite strict."

"And if I choose not to accept your proposal – should you extend it?" Her tone coy.

"Then I would have a broken heart and do not know how I should recover."

"Please could you not have this conversation within our earshot," Nadir asks. "I have heard quite enough about your love lives for one day, thank you."

"Just one more thing, M. Khan, if you would allow me," Monique requests.

"Why not?" Nadir sighs.

"Did you just ask for my hand?" Monique asks Raoul.

"Hmm, I suppose I did," he answers.

"Good."

"Well?"

"I shall think on it."

"Then I suppose I must prove myself worthy." Raoul flushes at her response. Turning back to Nadir, he asks, "What is it you want me to do?"

"Find out where he lives."

"And do what?"

"That is all. Become friendly, just so he will not be wary of you."

"That may not be easy for me." Raoul looks at Monique. "What he did to Monique…"

"That is understood, by all concerned," Nadir says. "No one thinks it will be easy, but we need to be following him, rather than have him following us. No one expects you to keep track of his movements – we have employees to do that, but we need a starting point."

"There is a restaurant that some of the patrons frequented. He joined us, perhaps he still goes there."

"Possibly," Nadir agrees. "He may also be driving a carriage…"

"He was driving a chaise just now," Raoul interjects.

"Yes, we think that is his own vehicle, but he has been seen around the coaches near the Opera House and it is possible that he is employed by someone called Corday."

"How can I find him that way?"

"Take a Corday coach and ask if they know of a 'patron' friend of yours you are trying to locate. The Opera has been dark for over a month and you heard that it was re-opening and wondered if M. Robert would be attending."

"He is vile. He was vile then," Raoul argues. "I chastised him for making a coarse comment about Christine, why would he believe that I wished to socialize with him?"

"Aha, well I was not aware of that," Nadir says.

"I am sorry," Raoul says. "Truly."

"It is not your fault he is crude, you were defending your friend," Adele says.

"That does not prevent me from speaking to some of the other patrons. Even more than wanting to meet the dancers, he wanted to rub noses with the upper crust – as they like to think of themselves." Raoul says. "With the re-opening, you can be assured that many of my colleagues will be circling the Opera House like hungry wolves."

"That might be even more ideal – find a way to have him at the Opera House for the opening. Do what you can, we would like to have him in restraints as soon as we can so life can move on," Nadir says. "He has been a menace for entirely too long."

* * *

"Are you certain this is my dress?" Christine asks the seamstress.

"Yes, Madame Daae," the tiny woman responds, showing Christine the tag with her name on it.

"I cannot believe that I have put on such weight that we cannot hook the garment, I am close to falling out of the bodice." Running her hands over the red, gold and green brocade, she attempts to tuck her breasts into the gown. "What about the skirt?"

"The waist is just a bit too small to fasten – perhaps an inch?"

"Can it be let out? Or perhaps tighten the corset?"

"Of course, Madame – that or we can substitute another dress until this one can be reconstructed. There will be no problem for the opening."

Adele enters the fitting room, commenting on the discussion. "You may wish to have several dresses made, Christine. And I would not be putting too much pressure on your waist with tighter corsets."

"Oh, Madame, hello – this is such a complication – the most recent fitting was just last week."

"Your body is changing," Adele whispers in her ear.

"Oh. Of course. Why did I not think of that?" Christine laughs. "So much for attempting to keep this quiet – I am certain the entire staff will know that Madame Daae is with child."

"Probably already do," Adele says.

"Daniella, let us see if we can find another dress and alter this one. We may need to make other dresses as well – perhaps using more fabric so they can be let out as needed. Thankfully this is not a long run. With the upcoming review, gowns can be made to be much more fluid."

"Yes, Madame, I will use the new measurements from this dress and will make the appropriate adjustments to your other gowns." She giggles as she carries the gown to the wardrobe rack.

"Many of the dresses Erik bought for me were too large, still, I suspect I will be letting them out as well," Christine sighs. "Thankfully I sew." Ducking behind the screen where she left her street garments, Christine changes into her blue day dress. Daniella returns to help her. "Even this dress is already feeling too tight.

"Would you like to bring this back tomorrow, Madame, we can make some adjustments?"

"That is so sweet, but I may be able to take care of it myself," Christine replies.

"As you wish, but we, all of us, would be happy to alter anything you wish." She lowers her head – shy to be speaking in such a way to the mistress. "We are so grateful to you and M. Saint-Rien for our employment and the protection."

"Why, thank you, Daniella, I will be certain he knows of your good wishes."

"We were never really afraid of him,"

Adele raises an eyebrow at that comment.

"Well, perhaps not too afraid," she says, running off before Adele can respond.

"I understand that you will be going to the cemetery shortly," Adele says.

"Yes, I wanted to visit my father's grave when we got married, but the injury to my foot was still a problem."

"I went to pay my respects Sunday last, after Mass. I missed you attending services with us."

"Things have certainly changed, have they not?

"I still think about him – his music. He was such a kind man," Adele says.

"Yes, he was. I wish he could have known Erik," Christine says. "I am happy that he knew you. You gave him the companionship I believe he missed after being alone for so long. Thank you for taking care of us." She stands back and examines Adele. "You changed your hair." She walks around her fussing with the combs, tucking in a loose strand. "It is really becoming. And you are wearing the gray dress. I am so pleased."

Adele blushes.

"Did Nadir dress your hair?"

Adele nods. "I quite like it myself."

"As you should," Christine says.

"I am surprised Erik has not taken a hand to your hair," Adele comments.

"Give him time, although he has made attempts. I am actually the one who meddles with his hair," Christine laughs. "Too many other issues have presented themselves, though. I suspect that if given a spare moment or two, I shall have a new coiffure. Monique may start a new trend. Do you know where he is, by the way?

"He and Nadir are in their new office. Erik had some furniture delivered and they are arguing over where things are to be positioned."

* * *

"I always feel such a sense of peace when I come here," Christine says, as they walk the path to her father's grave. "Is that strange?"

Daylight is still with them, but dwindling into dusk, the lowering sun casting shadows over the tombstones and the flowers mourners have left for their loved ones.

"No, I do not think so," Erik replies. "This is a place of final rest – or at least that is what most people hope. There is sorrow, obviously, but to know that the departed will not be disturbed offers the loved ones some reassurance."

"I never thought of it that way," she responds, taking his arm and pulling him tightly to her. "I have wondered, and please stop me if I am prying…"

"Why would I think you were prying? We have pledged our lives to one another," he says. "I have certainly told you some elements of my life that would have disgusted many people. Not to belabor the point, but I have become more accustomed to disgust than welcome over my years of living."

"That is kind of what I was wondering about," She says, then halts looking around. "Did we pass the path to Pappa's grave? This does not look familiar to me."

"I would take this route when following you," he replies. "Every time something like this happens, I find myself growing angry with myself and wonder why you want anything to do with me. Can you forgive me, yet again?"

"Oh, Erik. In truth it actually makes me feel safer – I realize that you would have been here if anyone had wished me harm," she laughs.

"Only me."

"Never, you. Where does this path lead?"

"We will come up behind the stone. There is a mausoleum, there…" He points to a stone building about one hundred meters from where they currently stand. "Your father's grave lies just beyond. This path gives a better view of the cemetery in general – one can observe anyone approaching from the front gate."

"I should have known that you would think of that before our coming here tonight," she says. "You are thinking about M. Robert?"

"Until he is apprehended, he must be in my thoughts." He touches his pocket, satisfied that the lasso is safely in place.

They continue their stroll.

"So what did you wish to know?"

"Well, you called yourself a ghost, you slept in a coffin, and you lived below ground, as if buried alive. I know that they called you the living corpse, but you were…are a living, breathing, wonderfully talented man – anything but dead."

"But I was dead, in all but my body – thanks to the original Pere Mansart – I did not have the courage or cowardice – whichever you choose to call it – to end my life. There was also something within me that refused to allow anyone else to kill me. So I lived as if dead. Until I met you, that seemed to be sufficient, we all die eventually, it was simply a matter of waiting for nature to take its course."

"That is so sad. Oh, Erik, I am so sorry that you felt so little regard for your life," she tells him.

"The world taught that to me. Now every moment is precious and I want only to experience as much of it as possible." He leads her down a stone stairway. "Here we are."

"I do not recognize the stone…oh…" she rubs her hand over the gray marbled granite, a sculpted angel playing a violin stands atop the stone. _Gustave Daae; 1830 – 1881; Beloved Husband and Father; Angel of Music_ etched on a black marble plaque. A vase of fresh flowers sits on either side of the grave.

Christine turns to Erik, tears flood her eyes as she wraps her arms around him, pressing her head to his chest. "It is beautiful. Thank you. I could not afford more than a marker."

"Then it is all right? I did not want to impose."

"It is wonderful – he would be so honored and pleased."

"Shall we share our news with him now?"

"Yes, most definitely."

Erik spreads the blanket he brought with him on the ground next to the grave and they sit, holding hands.

"Pappa, you already know Erik, but, perhaps, not in the way I would like you to know him. I love him very much and he is my husband as well as my angel of music. You always worried that I would not find a mate who would understand me – my dreamy nature, my love of music, my silliness, my need to be free. Well, I did – or he found me. He is even stranger than I am, if that is possible." She cautions a look at him, realizing what she just said.

Smiling, he just shakes his head. "Um, M. Daae, I want you to know that I adore your daughter and will do everything within my power to give her a happy life."

"Pappa, Erik had a beautiful stone made for your resting place, I hope there is some way that you can see it."

Erik nods at her stomach.

"And, you are going to be a grandfather. Near Christmastime I believe. Please watch over all of us." She takes the bouquet of spring flowers that she brought for him and adds them to the flowers in the vases.

"It is getting dark – we should go." He stands and helps her to her feet. "We can leave the way you are more accustomed to – the path appears to be clear."

As they reach the entrance, Nadir steps toward them from behind the gate. "All was well?" he asks.

"Yes," Christine answers. "Did he come?"

"He did. It would appear that leaving from the Opera House was a good idea to draw him out – he is definitely stalking you," the daroga answers. "When he saw me at the grave site, he turned around and left. I gave him his lead, not acting as though I was following him."

"Did he recognize you?" Erik asks.

"Doubtful with this ridiculous hat." He taps the bowler that he wears in lieu of the usual astrakhan. "Still, it is possible. I do think, though, that the presence of anyone here, besides the two of you, had him rethink what he may have had in mind, the fool. He is growing even bolder – more deranged. His actions tonight were spontaneous, so he is likely to act in any situation where he finds either or both of you alone."

"Darius is following him?"

"Yes, Henri as well. As I reached the gate, I saw him drive off in his chaise – Henri took my carriage and Darius was on horseback, both maintaining a decent distance behind him."

"Thank you for allowing me…us this visit," Christine says, kissing him on the cheek. "I realize it was a risk."

"It was indeed," Erik says. "I suspect he intended to do us both harm. That said, our plan foiled his and we will likely know where he is in hiding now."

"So you are beginning to believe in angels?" Christine jokes.

"Just this one," he says, taking her arm. "But I am willing to hope for others."

"Since my coach is otherwise engaged, may I ride with you?" Nadir asks.

"I do not know – what do you think, my dear?"

"I think we would be foolish not to."

"Dinner? We shall stop for Adele?"

"She is expecting me."


	25. Possibilities

POSSIBILITIES

Although the private room was unavailable, the maître d' was able to situate Erik, Christine, Nadir and Adele in a corner of the café that attracted little or no traffic from other patrons. Erik insisted that he take the seat facing the front door, despite the fact that he and his mask might be the first thing people saw when they walked in, were they looking at the back of the room. Nadir keeps watch on the door to the kitchen. The waiter clears the table and sets out cups and saucers for coffee and small plates holding an eclair for each of them.

"Do you really think he might follow us here?" Adele asks, picking up the pastry frosted with chocolate icing.

"No, he was spooked by seeing someone unexpected at the grave, I suspect. Hopefully Darius and Henri will be able report on his present location" Erik replies.

"Darius is going to surveille him tonight and will follow if he ventures out again tonight. He volunteered, since he was on horseback. Henri will spell him in the morning. After that, we can have two of our other men take shifts."

"When is Raoul supposed to speak with him?" Adele asks.

"Raoul is involved?" Christine asks.

"Yes, he agreed to help – I thought I had told you," Erik replied.

"I did not realize he agreed – just that you were going to ask," she says, a bit of temper in her voice.

"I am sorry, my dear," Erik says. "Nadir just told me this, he only found out this morning." He reaches for her hand and kisses it. "As promised, you will be advised of all our plans. This is upsetting enough without your feeling as though secrets are being kept from you."

"I am sorry, too, it is like everything sets me off recently," she says.

"You are with child, Christine," Adele explains, "with that comes food cravings, illness in the morning, weight gain – and hurt feelings."

"Oh, yes. Erik, weight gain – I had to ask for some new costumes to be made. Daniella, told me that my current dress had to be let out. The baby is already growing."

"Well, that is good, is it not?" Seeking affirmation, he looks to Adele and Nadir.

"Of course, but it plays havoc with clothing becoming too small. As for the costumes, the seamstresses will be altering for the entire run of the opera. We," Adele, inclining her head to include Christine in her comment, "thought it a good idea to have some dresses made ahead of time, as well as adjustments to the pattern to allow for a, shall we say, rounding out of her stomach."

"Oh," Erik says. A spark lights his eyes that drift off to the distance, he lowers his head and rubs his chin. A small smile curves the unmasked side of his face. "Oh, yes, that is perfect. Heehee," an out-of-character giggle escapes his lips and he rubs his hands. "So there will be an extra costume?"

"Weeellll, at the moment, we have Carlotta's original dress, Christine's old dress that is being let out and two others – we need one for the understudy," Adele answers, her eyebrows pull together and eyes close to a squint. "Why?"

Nadir adds his own puzzled look to that of Adele. "Yes, why?"

"You shall know very soon, I do not want to reveal anything until I have it all worked out – the dresses gave me an idea about duping our friend, M. Robert."

"Do you plan to use different women dressed as Elissa as decoys?" Christine asks.

"Brilliant, my wife, not exactly, but very close."

Nadir comments, "This, in addition to adding more mirrors to the rehearsal room and backstage? I know how you fancy mirrors."

"Yes. How is that proceeding?" Erik asks Adele. "Particularly those backstage."

"The girls love having more mirrors, especially the moveable ones, as do I. It enables them to work separately, if they want to develop their technique. I wish we would have had them all along," she says, "even if it gets confusing with all the images being reflected at once. Nevertheless, I know that Meg and Monique were taken aback when the Vicomte came the other day and they could not see him because the mirror did not cover the entire length of the wall. They were not aware of him until he spoke."

"How is that courtship developing?" Christine asks, nonchalantly taking a bite of her eclair. She feels Erik's eyes watching her, and bows her head, cheeks flushing.

To her surprise, he reaches over to squeeze her hand. "I do not suppose that I will ever be entirely free from feelings of envy toward the b… Vicomte, but I believe that what we have is much more than that, and I accept you still care for him."

"Really?" Nadir exclaims.

"I would be happier had he never existed – that she never knew him, but enough chaos has been created over his presence in my life and I cannot allow my energies to be spent in hating him any longer."

"Well, I am beginning to believe in miracles," Adele comments.

"Harrumph," Erik grumbles. "If Christine is happy, then I am happy. Let us leave it at that."

Christine brings his hand to her lips and kisses his fingers. "I am happy."

"Good," Erik says. "So, how is the courtship proceeding?"

"Well, it would seem that Monique is a Baroness – or her father is a Baron, I'm not sure if she has a title as well, it did not come up. Hers appears to be one of those families that is well off, not wealthy, but by no means poor, and have a title."

"That should save some problems for Raoul with his brother," Christine remarks. "Phillippe was completely against Raoul marrying me – as you all well know."

"Monique indicated she knew as much," Adele tells her. "But she is only willing to have him come calling right now."

"Understandable considering what she just went through," Nadir says. "Were I a woman, I do not know that I would care to be around any man for a very long time. Raoul is lucky she even speaks to him."

"And my Meg? What does she think about this?" Christine asks.

Adele and Nadir exchange a look and burst out laughing.

"What?" Christine and Erik are puzzled.

"Meg has decided that she wants a suitor, too." Nadir says.

"I can understand that," Christine says. "We were so close and now I seldom see her. I was so happy when Monique moved in with you and they were developing a friendship."

"Is she interested in someone?" Erik asks. This idea of gossiping is new to him, but it diverts attention from his plans, shifts Christine's thoughts from her fears about M. Robert to something the others find entertaining. All in all, though, he finds the chatter amusing. Living in the world does have some pleasurable elements to it. He finds himself relaxing – enjoying the camaraderie.

"Darius," Nadir says.

A guffaw explodes from Erik, part dog bark, part goose. All eyes turn to him – never have any of them heard such a sound escape from his mouth or anyone's mouth, for that matter. Even the few customers still occupying the café turn to look at them. Erik brings his napkin up to his face, trying to stifle his laughter. "I am sorry," he says, holding his sides.

"Erik, man, get a grip," says Nadir, who is unable to contain his own laughter – both at the idea of Darius with Meg and the strange laugh that belongs to his friend.

Soon, the two women, join the men – all of them in tears from their amusement.

* * *

The Opera House is silent, the building still too new to harbor any ghosts to give the haunted feeling so many older buildings have embedded within their walls. Erik was its only Phantom and he has retired from the business of frightening people – except for one last performance for one special attendee.

At the moment, however, he is guiding Christine through the new mirror/door he has installed in the Phantom Security office, to the tunnels taking them back to their little house below the Palais Garnier. For the time being, this will be the only entrance they will use to access their home, not wishing to call any attention to the Rue Scribe gate in the event M. Robert is watching them.

Every so often, Erik chuckles.

"I do not believe I have ever heard you laugh so much," Christine giggles along with him. "Truthfully, I do not believe I have ever heard you laugh at all, I am sure I would have remembered."

"I do not believe I have ever laughed in good humor," he replies, making certain he disarms and rearms all the traps as they make their way down the stone path.

"I suppose it is amusing that Meg would be interested in Darius – but she did not know of his…physical condition," she argues. "He is quite an attractive man. Since he has been guarding the girls, I am certain that she has also found him appealing as a source of comfort."

"No doubt, he is that," Erik responds. "There is also the possibility that he might actually wish to develop a relationship with someone – perhaps Meg. I do not know him well enough to say, but I do know how it feels to be alone and…different. Nadir might know more – he has known Darius since he was a boy."

"But he is a eunuch," she says.

"In my travels, I learned that some of the operations performed do not always result in a complete disinterest or lack of ability to indulge in relations."

"Well, I hope that Meg is not hurt or disappointed," Christine sighs.

Reaching the lake, Erik helps her into the skiff.

"I do not believe I shall ever know anything more magical than crossing an underground lake with you. I fell in love with you that very night. I loved you before that – your voice, the way you taught me – but being with you, as a man, touched my heart so deeply," Christine says.

"This day has been one of miracles for me – your words now only deepen my happiness and love for you," he says, banking the boat. "Here we are."

They climb out of the small boat and Erik pulls it into its hiding place.

Entering the house, Erik makes the rounds turning on the lights. "I am just going to check the path to the Rue Scribe entrance."

"Do you expect a problem?"

"Not really, but I want to be certain that all is in order. I would be a fine businessman if I were not able to secure my own home."

"This dress is becoming very uncomfortable – too much dinner…in addition to the life inside me," she mutters to herself while walking into Erik's former bedroom. Both concluded they prefer her lighter, brighter room, neither being comfortable with the darkness he sought in the past. Until they move to the new apartment, this room is consigned to storage. The large four poster and other furniture, including the few pieces left behind in the music room, were already moved to the new apartment. Her older dresses hang in his armoire – most of his clothing transferred to the other room.

Rummaging through the garments, she smiles at her wedding gown that has been hung in one corner, finding the one she is looking for, the blue cambric day dress with the loose fit and soft fabric, she removes it from the hook.

As she turns to go back into the sitting room she senses movement. Something. Someone in the corner of the room catches her eye, she screams, "Erik!" Gasping she runs into his arms as he races toward her from the kitchen.

"What is it? What, darling?"

She points at the door to the bedroom. "There is someone in there."

Erik runs to the bedroom, pulling the lasso from his pocket, stopping short when he realizes what frightened her. Tucking the catgut away, he takes her hand and pulls her toward him in an embrace – shushing her, rocking her gently. "There is no one. No one came in – all the locks and traps are secure." He leads her back into the bedroom, turning on more lights.

In the corner stands the mannequin he created in his long ago desire for companionship – a creation that made him feel even more alone and bereft. His initial instinct was to destroy it, but it looked too much like Christine and he could not part with it.

As he explains this to her, the shaking stops and she is able to regain her breath. Pulling away from him, she walks over to the mannequin, the torso covered with one of Erik's black cloaks. Touching the wig of curls and the porcelain mask re-creating her face, she smiles. "It looks remarkably like me." With a slight frown, she asks, "Have I seen this before?"

"Sadly, yes – you fainted. I hid it away after that," he admits. "It was the act of a foolish, lonely man."

"But you kept it."

"It could never be you, because it is simply an animated skeleton with moveable joints, horsehair stuffing, and a cotton covering that looks like skin, still, it _is_ your face."

She spends more time examining the model, then says, "This is going to be your decoy, is it not?" A bright smile splits her face. "You are so brilliant, my husband."

Relieved at her understanding, Erik releases the breath he was holding. "Yes, the thought occurred to me when you were speaking of the dresses needed for your body's changes," he tells her.

"You do not want me or Meg or Veronique to do this?"

"No, never," he asserts. "You will already be in your costume and will lead him where I want him to go. You will then disappear. More than that, I would not have you or any of the women do."

"There is more?" She asks. "The mirrors?"

He laughs, "Indeed, my dear, mirrors, the decoy, all sorts of magic – this will be my greatest – and most important pranks."

"You seem so certain, I am frightened." Resting her head on his chest, she wraps her arms around him, needing to feel his strength. Holding him close always calms her.

"Here, let me take your dress and run you a hot tub – then some music to help you relax."

"Or, we could go to bed," she giggles.

"Or, we could go to bed."

* * *

The following day finds a frustrated Meg – despite her repeated breaks from rehearsal on the main stage to look for him, Darius has been curiously absent.

Monique comments, "What is wrong with you? You are nervous as a cat. Why do you keep leaving? I would not want to have Madame come in and find you gone."

"I must see him today before I lose my nerve," Meg retorts.

"Him, being Darius?" Monique asks, her laugh bell-like, eyes bright with humor.

"Yes. I made up my mind but, whereas before, he was always here, now he is nowhere to be found," Meg pouts. "It is an omen, I know it." All the excitement drains from her body and she stands before Monique, body limp, mood disheartened. "I really like him."

Monique gives Meg a squeeze. "Go ahead, then. I will tell Madame you are relieving yourself."

"Thank you," Meg calls over her shoulder as she runs to check the rehearsal room one more time. Reaching her destination, nearly losing her balance as the door opens, her wish come true. Darius walks out blocking her way.

"Mlle. Giry, I apologize, I should have been more careful when exiting the room. Are you quite all right?" He takes her arm, helping her regain her balance.

"Yes, I am fine," Meg looks up at his dark, handsome face – nose rounded at the end as opposed to Nadir's nose that bears a slight hook, pale brown eyes and a full mouth with lips that turn up at the corners even when he is not smiling. His astrakhan hat is the same dark gray as his frock coat. She looks at his hand on her arm.

At this, he removes it, then steps back to allow her entry to the room. "Very well, then, excuse me. I must meet with M. Khan. There is a new guard today, so there is no need to be concerned by my leaving."

"Yes, I have seen him. Darius?" Meg stops him with her voice.

"Yes, Mademoiselle?" He turns back, waiting for her to speak.

"Do you have a moment, there is something I would like to discuss with you."

"I suppose I could take a bit longer in leaving for my meeting. Shall we go inside?"

"Yes, thank you."

He ushers her inside the rehearsal room to some chairs provided for the girls or visitors to sit during rehearsals.

Angling his body toward her, his hands folding in his lap, he asks, "What is it you would like to discuss?"

"You are a eunuch?" She blurts out, less a question than a statement.

Taken somewhat aback, he laughs lightly. "Yes, Mademoiselle. I was chosen to be a Palace guard as a child and a…procedure was performed on me that would allow me to do service to the Shah."

"Was it an honor?"

Pausing a moment, pondering the thought, he responds, "I suppose it could be thought to be so."

"Did it hurt?"

"Yes." He shifts his weight in the chair. "Some boys did not survive. My will was strong."

"I am glad."

"As am I," he says. "May I ask why you are interested in this?"

"Do you ever wish for companionship?"

"I have companionship – with M. Khan…"

"But he was your employer," she says. "What I guess I mean is do you have any friends?"

"I do not wish to be rude, but, again, I do not know why this is of interest to you."

Meg looks down at her clasped hands. With a deep breath, her deep blue eyes lift to meet his – wide, imploring, she says, "I like you and I hoped that we could become friends. I did not know if you would want to be friends with a girl."

"Friends?"

"Maybe, at first…then, perhaps, we could court." The words rush from her mouth. There is no way she can control the blush that rises from her chest to her neck to her face.

"Well, I must say I never anticipated this," he laughs, the first indication of emotion during this conversation.

"I read that eunuchs were not able to be with women, so that is why they guard the wives of rulers. But I also read that might not always be the case. Is that true?"

"Both are true, yes," he replies. "You _read_ this?"

"Not exactly," she says. "Monique knows a lot of things, she had tutors and she told me these things when I said I…liked you."

"I see."

"Well?"

His brown eyes sparkle as he looks at her earnest face. "We can be friends."

"Really, you would be friends with me?" She claps her hands against her cheeks.

"Why would I not wish to be friends with you?"

"I mean…"

"Yes, I know what you mean," he responds. "Truthfully, I do not know. Years ago it was something I was curious about, but never felt the desire to pursue an answer – I preferred retaining my life," he chuckles. "I do think it would be pleasant to have a _friend_ now that my life has changed. Beyond that, as I said, I do not know."

"Then we shall be friends – at least you will not run off and marry someone…oh."

"That is true enough," he concedes. "I am sorry that your friends have left you."

"That was a stupid thing to say."

"It was honest. You are honest. I believe I would like that in a friend." He rises from the chair. "Now I must meet with M. Khan, or he shall decide that I am no longer _his_ friend or more importantly, his employee."

"When can I see you – not here, but away from here?" Her face is flushed and sitting still has become impossible.

"I shall return later, after my meeting and we can make plans. I must find out what needs M. Khan has from me first."

"All right. Thank you." She stands up next to him and bounces to the door with him. "Later?"

"Later." With a slight bow, he leaves.

With a small wave, she chasses into a petite jete across the room to the barre, giggling at his promise.

* * *

"The information that Darius and Henri provided is priceless," Erik comments to Nadir as they review the data cards set up with the information that Darius just gave them about his and Henri's surveillance of M. Robert.

They sit across from one another at the partner desk that dominates the center of the office. A large mirror covering a portion of the wall behind Erik is partially obstructed by a chalk board bearing Erik's writing and miscellaneous diagrams. The other walls display walnut filing cabinets, card files, bookcases and an armoire. There are two visitor's chairs placed back to back next to the desk, providing the only other seating besides that occupied by the partners themselves.

"Do you suppose that Meg has declared her… intentions?" Erik asks. "You know his behavior better than I, but it seemed to me that he was just a tad more chipper just now than he was earlier."

"You do like the gossip, do you not?" Nadir chuckles. "Your estimation is correct. He has been rather glum all day. The new security position here has quite engaged him and staying in one place waiting on someone to move, then following them is not his favorite activity. Even when we were in Persia, I could not give him long shifts just standing guard anywhere – he is simply too intelligent and grows bored quickly," Nadir recalls. "His demeanor was certainly not glum just now – he could not wait to make his report and leave."

A knock on the door interrupts their conversation. "Come," Erik calls out.

Raoul opens the door, waiting for Erik and Nadir to acknowledge him.

Nadir is the first to look up. "Ah, M. le Vicomte, please come in. Have a seat."

"Please, just call me Raoul – with our histories I do not feel that titles are quite appropriate," he says as he pulls the chair next to Nadir's side of the desk out, turning it so he faces both men as he sits.

"See, Erik, I told you that your plan did not make sense if we have a client come in to see both of us."

Erik hisses, "Very well – we shall buy a settee – the room will have to be re-arranged." Looking to Raoul. "I assume you have some information for us. I would be surprised if you came here for a social visit." Putting down his pen, he sits back in his chair to give full attention to the younger man.

"True enough," Raoul says. "I came here as soon as I was able, I realize that time is of the essence."

"So?" Nadir leans forward resting his elbows on the desk, hands folded.

Raoul has their full attention.

"I just left him at the cabaret. We met quite by chance. I had been stopping by at regular intervals without success, until just now. We arrived at the same time."

* * *

" _So it is the Vicomte de Chagny."_

The gruff voice was familiar, yet sent a chill up his back. The man he sought came up next to him and Raoul felt his heart increase its rhythm, sweat accumulating on his forehead. The urge to run was strong. Why the fear, he wondered. Robert seemed only to be interested in damaging women – women he, Raoul, cared about. Yet, he himself tried to kill Christine – was he any different from this man? Was he really the coward his brother and the cre…Erik believed him to be?

" _M. Robert, how very agreeable to see you again,"_ Raoul responded as he turned to face him, digging deep for the sense of calm taught to him by his sisters and brother for speaking with strangers in public.

" _I had hoped to find you here."_

" _Indeed."_

" _Yes, it would seem that I have placed myself on the wrong side of the newest patron of the Opera House and find I am not welcome to observe the rehearsals as I had once done in the past."_

" _Ah, yes. The new security company has enforced some strict rules, I understand."_

" _You do not attend?"_

" _Not for some time. I have been…indisposed"_

" _The songbird flew away."_

" _Excuse me."_

" _The soprano – she is with the masked man. She was yours and he stole her from you."_

" _I beg your pardon."_

" _He steals from everyone. He stole my father. He stole my house."_

" _I do not understand, Monsieur?"_

" _He is a monster – you know that. He was born a monster, a creature who should have died when he was born."_

" _Monsieur…"_

" _His father killed my father."_

" _What?"_

" _My father worked for him, there was an accident, they both died. The child was born a monster as punishment."_

" _How so?"_

" _The priest even tried to exorcise the demons from his soul. It did not work. My friends and I went to end his life. We could not get to him, but killed his dog – the stupid old dog. The monster was screaming at us from inside the house. We could not get to him."_

" _You knew M. Saint-Rien as a child?"_

" _He was not a child, he was a demon, spawn of the devil who caused my father's death. I just found that he was still alive. We thought he had been sent away or died, but he is here."_

Raoul observed the man's rage take over his being. This thing in front of him was the monster. My poor Monique, is this what you had to deal with? He had to stop the rant, keeping his tone as level as possible, he asked, _"What is it you want from me?"_

" _Access to the Opera House. He stole your woman. Do you not want compensation for that? I tried to get her away from him, but it was not the songbird. They gave another her clothing, trying to fool me. He is a monster. I will kill him – all you have to do is get me in the door,"_ he laughed.

Raoul's stomach roiled at the statement.

" _You might even get your woman back – back where she belongs. Or I could take her if you have no use for the whore. They are all useless after a short time."_

* * *

"He is mad," Raoul says. "I had no words." Raoul looks from one man to the other. All color is drained from his face, his hands are shaking.

"What did you say – ultimately?" Erik asks.

"I told him that evil demons must be dealt with and I appreciated that he was willing to be the instrument of justice. I also said that I was grateful for his desire to return my property to me," Raoul's tone is flat and cold as he meets Erik's eyes. "My family taught me well."

"You wanted to protect Christine." Nadir says, it is a statement.

"Yes."

"Would you care for a brandy?" Erik asks, walking to the armoire. He opens the doors and removes a crystal decanter and three brandy snifters. Pouring two fingers in each glass, he hands one to Nadir and another to Raoul and takes the third glass to his place at the desk. "You did well. I admire your nerve and calm. But then you never lacked nerve." The snifter is lifted in a toasting gesture.

"What is the plan you made with him," Nadir asks.

Raoul takes a sip of his drink, then rolls the glass between his palms. "I told him about a private party for special friends to be held backstage after the opening performance and invited him to be my guest – as you suggested."

"Perfect," Erik tells him. "We could not do this without you."

Raoul looks hard at the face of the man he has hated for what seems a lifetime. "What he told me – is it true?"

"Cutting through the embellishments? It is – for the most part. I only learned much of this myself recently," Erik tells him. "My father died in a construction accident. I was born on the day of his funeral. Apparently, Robert's…Boudreaux' father was killed in the same accident. My mother provided an annuity for him and his mother."

"The mob…the dog?"

"Yes. I ran away after that," Erik finishes his drink.

"Why now?"

"I cut the money off. He did not fulfill the legalities," Erik explains. "That likely pushed him over the edge – but it did stop him from abusing Mlle. Monique, ironically." He stands up. "Enough of this talk. It is not really relevant at this point. We just need to stop him."

Raoul stands and moves to the desk, offering his hand. "I am sorry."

"For what?"

"Everything – there seem too many things to list," Raoul laughs softly, shaking his head. "Please." He pushes his hand toward Erik again.

Erik looks at the outstretched hand, taking a deep breath, he gives one shake, then pulls his own hand back. "You know that, at the moment, he is only interested in my blood?"

"Yes, I considered that. He also needs to pay for what he did to Monique and who knows what else," Raoul says. "Even if it was only you, I would help."

"Thank you."

Nadir taps his pen against the crystal goblet. "It is a bit early to celebrate the end of this person's fouling of the land with his presence, but perhaps we could drink to reconciliation?"

"Indeed," Erik says, retrieving the decanter and pouring each of them another finger of brandy.

The door bursts open. "We are finally finished for the evening. I am so hungry, do you have any of my macarons…" Christine says, entering the office.

Raoul leaps to his feet, backing against desk.

"Raoul?" Her eyes turn to Erik for explanation.

"The Vicomte has made contact with M. Robert, inviting him to our special reception after the opening night performance." He opens the top drawer of his desk, pulls out a paper sack of macarons, sets it on the desk and guides her to sit in his vacated chair.

Erik motions for Raoul to return to his chair. "Please sit."

"I must be leaving."

"Stay a moment," Christine says, her eyes taking him in. "You look well. I am glad."

"As do you." Closing his eyes, he bows his head – taking a deep breath, he whispers, "Christine, I…I am so very, very sorry." Raising his head to look at her, tears threatening, he falls to his knees. "Please forgive me. I was crazed."

"Get up, Raoul. All is forgiven. It is the past," Christine tells him. "Please."

Raoul returns to his chair, sitting down on the edge. "Congratulations on your marriage." He allows his gaze to drift to Erik, who stands behind Christine's chair.

Erik acknowledges the comment with a nod.

"Thank you." After a long moment of silence, she says, "Please excuse me, but I must have something to eat." A macaron is removed from the sack and eaten post haste. "My appetite just seems to be growing," as her fingers draw small circles on her stomach. Continuing in a conversational tone, she asks, "So you saw him? That is wonderful and dreadful. When, where?"

Adopting her attitude, he replies, "Just now, at the cabaret where the men would gather before coming to the Opera House." His eyes focus on the hypnotic movement of her hand.

Following his gaze, she stops the massage, content to simply rest her hand in her lap.

Erik places a hand on her shoulder.

Observing Raoul's stare, Nadir jumps in. "Might I have one of those cookies?"

"Oh, of course, how rude of me," Christine says, holding the sack out to him. "Raoul – would you care for a sweet?"

"No. No thank you," he says, recovering his presence. "I really should go. Monique must waiting for me – as you said, the cast has completed the day's rehearsal."

"Oh, dear. M. le Vicomte – Monique…" Nadir says.

"What about Monique?" Raoul asks. "Nothing has happened to her?"

"No, she is fine, but it may not be wise to be seen with her at the moment…"

Raoul sighs deeply. "You think he may be following her?"

"No," Erik says, looking at Nadir. "But he may be following you. In all honesty, and with no offense to the young lady, I doubt he would even remember who she is."

"I am certain you are correct, based on what he said earlier, but why me?"

"You told him you still wanted Christine."

"You do?" Christine gasps.

"No," Raoul says, his tone adamant. "No," he repeats softly. "It took a while to understand, but, no, even I can see that you are with the person you love. In fact, I always knew. I just did not want to admit it."

Christine smiles at his words.

"He told Boudreaux that, so he would not hurt you," Erik tells her.

"Oh, Raoul."

"I shall speak to Phillippe, perhaps he would consent to her living at our home until this is over. I could leave the house first, so she would be able to come here unobserved." He looks to the other men for approval of his idea. "I do not wish to be apart from her."

"I shall accompany you now – you can explain our concerns and your plan – to see if she agrees. Then I will take her home. If all is well with your brother, we can get her settled tomorrow," Nadir suggests.

Raoul nods and they walk to the door together.

"You have my gratitude for your efforts," Erik tells him.

"And mine," Christine adds.

"The man is a beast – worse than that – he is soulless. Please keep me informed on whatever else I might be able to do to help," he says, touching his hand to his hand, with a small bow to Christine, he follows Nadir from the office.

"Well, this has certainly been an eventful day," Erik says. "Shall we go home?"

"Nothing could suit me more." She rises from the chair, handing him the bag of cookies. "Perhaps you should put these back in the desk."

He takes the bag and places it in the drawer. After checking the lock and alarm on the outer door, he takes her hand and they walk to the mirror, with a touch to the edge of the chalk board, they have access to the tunnels.

"We do have more macarons at home, do we not?" Christine asks before following him into the passage.

"Yes, my dear, we have more macarons at home," Erik chuckles.

* * *

 **A/N** – **Three things…First: Thank you English Phantom for information (from your story) about Animal Crackers – I forgot to mention that in the last chapter. Two: The laugh I described, as best I could, can be credited to my late husband. He had the oddest, loudest and funniest laugh anyone ever heard – yes, like the combined bark of a dog and the honk of a goose. As his friend, John said – Mark could never be lost in a crowd, all he had to do was laugh. Lastly, thank you to the wonderful people who have been following this story. A special thanks to those who comment, your words are precious to me. For any writer, having someone read his/her work is a joy like no other.**


	26. Reassessment

REASSESSMENT

The auburn-haired woman slips off the narrow bed. Quickly pulling her petticoat up under her torn brown skit and adjusting her chemise under the blue cotton bodice, she gathers her woolen cape around her, covering a mop of disheveled hair with the hood. Glancing around the dark room, a sliver of moonlight coming in through the heavy drapes providing the only illumination, she notices the man's pants hanging off the edge of the bed. She spits on his bulk before exiting.

Georges Robert Boudreaux groans and rolls over, falling on the floor, bumping his head on the small bedside table. "Sacre bleu." It takes him a moment to remember where he is.

Examining his prone body, he notes that his drawers are wet with what he presumes is jism, a remnant from a sex act he cannot recall experiencing. The pain in his groin confirms that he has been handled. Using the edge of the bed for support he pulls himself up to his knees, then struggles to his feet, staggering to the small dresser for a drink of stale water, to clean his mouth bitter and gummy from dried saliva. After relieving himself with some difficulty in the chamber pot, annoyed at the fact that it has not been emptied from the day before, he curses, "Damn maid." He surveys the room.

Finding his trousers on the edge of the bed, tugging them over his broad thighs and hips.

"Bitches and whores." Had he drunk that much? Where was the woman? Prim and proper little thing she was. All sweetness and coy, not the prettiest face – too wide for his tastes, with a pug nose. But her hair – long, hair the color of fall leaves – oh, that lovely hair – how he wanted that hair.

Well, that was one mistake he would not make again. No more drinking with them. Once the little songbird was under his control, he would not have to deal with the women at the inn. The stupid vicomte thinks he will be able to have her back again. All those nobles were stupid. The fool was actually going to escort him to the private party and hand her over to him.

Did he really think he was going to kill the money man? The freak, for all his evil ways, was his way to the money he needed. No, the soprano would serve him well.

* * *

"Giselle, are you all right?" Darius asks the petite woman as she runs toward him from the building he believed to be a barn. Taking her by the hand, they race to the waiting coach where he helps her climb into the carriage. "Henri," he says into the lovers' phone, "quickly back to Giselle's apartment, I think she may be injured."

"I am fine," she insists, trying to catch her breath. Taking a moment to adjust her clothing to make it more comfortable, she removes the cape and smooths her hair, pulling it back into a ponytail, securing it with a piece of fabric torn from her petticoat. Her gray eyes take in Darius and his concerned look. "I am all right, honestly."

"Did he…? I could not find you…" His pale brown eyes beseeching.

"No, he did not. Oh, he wanted to and he certainly tried, but the laudanum and some sleight of hand on my part took care of that," she smirks.

"You know magic?" Darius asks.

"Magic?"

"Sleight of hand – magic tricks – making things disappear?"

Her laugh is rough. "Something like that."

Darius finds his face flush, not clear on what she mean, buts chooses to not pursue the discussion. "Oh."

An encore of the coarse laugh. "I cannot wait until I meet with him again," she says. "Have Henri take us to the office, there are things I must tell MM Saint-Rien and Kahn."

"Care to tell me, too?"

"Of course, you and Henri must know – the idiot was so drugged, he did not realize he was being interrogated."

Darius pulls down the phone again. "Henri, drive to the Opera House instead. We are to have a meeting – Giselle has information to relay, more than just where our M. Robert lives."

Giselle folds her cape over her lap for the time being. Folding her hands on her lap, she examines Darius, her focus falling on his astrakhan hat. "Interesting chapeau."

"It is called an astrakhan. I am a Muslim from Persia," he replies.

"A friend of M. Khan?"

"In a manner of speaking. I was his servant, then he and M. Saint-Rien offered me the opportunity to work for the security business," he replies. "And you? I have seen you backstage, but was not aware that you were employed as a guard."

'Nothing so glamourous as living in another country," she says. "Former dancer with the ballet until I broke my leg. I was given a job with the stage crew – my father taught me carpentry and fisticuffs. He wanted a son," she laughs. "When the security was started at the Opera House, I asked Mme. Giry if I could apply for a job."

"You appear to have proved their wisdom in hiring you."

"It is certainly more exciting than building scrims.

Both of them disengage from the conversation and observe the road taking them back to Paris.

"Darius?"

"Yes?" His attention returns to Giselle.

"Are you…involved with anyone?"

Darius' eyes widen, he shifts in his seat. How is this happening? In two days, two women have indicated interest in him as a man. An unexpected and unusual warmth fills him as he recalls Meg's welcome approach – he admittedly had an attraction for her. A tiny, blonde faery with eyes as blue as the evening sky – he caught himself watching her more often than was professional, he knew. The offer of friendship was something he hoped for.

* * *

The rose-colored dress complemented her delicate complexion and brought out the depth of blue in her eyes and the pink tint of her cheeks. " _You look lovely in that color."_ He was completely taken with this girl, which surprised him. All the years in the harem never had him taken with anyone male or female. Most of the other eunuchs never achieved a mature look. His face and body continued to mature to manhood. He often wondered if his castration was incomplete, he had been older than the other boys – his voice was moderate, neither high nor low in pitch. A beard grew, not thick, but a beard, nonetheless. Still he never went so far as to test his masculinity beyond working to maintain his strength and the muscles in his upper body. Had he engaged with one of the women – any woman – wife or slave, he would have been killed. Other eunuchs held much power, but for him, his complete and total usefulness to the Shah was to be a safe guardian of the harem - period. Perhaps it was the freedom he had now. Whatever the reason, he was intrigued with this new element in his life.

" _Thank you. Christine picked the dress for me."_

" _Yes, I remember you wore it to the wedding."_ A small bouquet was presented to her with his words.

" _Flowers, how lovely,"_ Meg said, taking the nosegay of violets. Standing on tip-toe, she gives him a light kiss on the cheek.

" _Shall we go? I thought the little café just up the street would be comfortable for you to walk, if that suits you."_

" _Perfect, I should like to spend some time out-of-doors."_

Darius watched as she engaged the locks on the front door and followed her down the stairs to the street. Neither of them spoke as they walked onto the street.

" _Dar…"_

" _Meg…"_

They both laughed.

" _I…"_

" _I…"_

More laughter.

" _You first…"_

" _You first…"_

Darius stopped walking and took Meg by the shoulder and kissed her upturned lips.

" _Oh, my,"_ she said, _"I have never been kissed by a man before."_ Her cheeks took on more of the rose coloring of her dress. _"That was quite nice."_

" _I am glad,"_ Darius muttered. _"I have never kissed a woman before. Perhaps now we have something to talk about."_

Meg grinned at him and took his arm. " _Or we can kiss again."_

* * *

Returning his focus to Giselle, he finds himself uncomfortable at her question. No doubt he admires her courage, the last thing he wants to do is insult her, though, she is a colleague now. "Yes…I am…involved with someone," he replies.

"Hmmm, too bad – she is very fortunate. The men I have met are uncomfortable with my skills, you seem different," Giselle sighs, returning her concentration to the landscape outside her window.

 _You do not know how different._

* * *

Christine pulls dress after dress from the armoire, holding each one against her body, examining how each looks in the cheval mirror then tossing them onto the bed. In every instance, the waistline is too small. All of the gowns had been too loose when Erik first showed them to her, now, none fit.

"I have nothing to wear," she cries, tears form in her eyes as she flops down in frustration. "Stop being such a spoiled brat," she mutters to herself. "You never had any new clothes at all, now you complain when the beautiful _new_ dresses do not fit. Fix them, lazy girl. Use your sewing skills or have you forgotten, little princess?"

"Are you talking to me, my dear?" Erik calls from the sitting room.

"No, just telling myself what a harpy I have become since I married you."

Standing in the doorway, he frowns. "Are you saying that I am a bad influence on you? What have I done? I shall change that behavior immediately."

"No, silly, if anything you are too kind, but that is hardly a flaw," she smiles, pushing herself up to a sitting position, gesturing for him to come sit next to her.

Joining her on the edge of the bed, he puts an arm around her shoulders.

Leaning against him she explains her plight. "I have all these wonderful clothes, but nothing fits, except for the lingerie – and even that is getting tight." She tugs at her dressing gown. "How could my body have changed so much, so quickly? Do I look different to you?"

"Um."

"Oh, dear, you are umming again." Her tears begin to flow in earnest. "I am becoming fat and ugly and you no longer want to have special loving with me."

"That will never happen – you are perfection to me," he croons, bringing her closer to him. "I actually, um, like some of the changes," he says with a level of caution.

"You do?" she sniffles. "Like what?"

"Like your breasts – while deliriously lovely before, now they are even more so."

"And?" She snuggles closer to him.

"And your belly has become an adorable bump. I love that there is a sweet baby growing there."

"And?" Her head finds his shoulder, nuzzling his neck.

"Your hips are a joy to behold and to hold."

"More." His ear is nibbled.

"And you glow. You are and always will be the most beautiful woman I have even known – still, now, you have an aura about you that is likely because of our child. I am the most fortunate man to have such a beautiful woman as my wife."

Nose scrunching in a sniffle, she kisses his cheek, then looks for something to wipe her eyes – Erik hands her his handkerchief. "My clothes still do not fit," she pouts.

"So you shall have some new clothing. That is easy enough to resolve." Kissing her on the forehead, he stands and picks up each of the discarded dresses, one by one to examine the seams. "Some of these have enough fabric to let them out several inches – would you want to do that, or just maintain them as they are for the future?"

"I think both, perhaps, alter some and keep the rest for later. I may need dresses that are much larger in the waist and…in the bodices – as you have observed," she giggles. "If we can, perhaps a dress or two made specifically for women who are with child."

"Then that is what we shall do," he says. "Would you wish for me to accompany you or, perhaps Meg or Adele? This is a resting day for them."

"No, I think I would prefer your company," she says. "Much as I hate to admit it, your taste is better than any of ours. Meg would want pink and Madame takes after you – she likes black. Hmmm, maybe I should go alone," she teases.

Erik laughs. "It is done then." Holding some of the dresses over each of his arms, he asks, "Which one seemed to fit the best?"

"The blue and green plaid, I think."

"Then the blue and green plaid it is." He puts that day dress on the edge of the bed and picks out three dresses with the most excess fabric and returns the others in the armoire. "I must go up to the office for a short time. Would you like to join me or wait here?"

"Oh, definitely join you – no sense in you making two trips, beside I want to know what is going on."

"I promised Phillippe de Chagny some plans for his home that I want Andre to deliver. Also, Darius, Henri and Giselle are supposed to be giving us a report on M. Robert."

"Giselle? Who is Giselle?" Christine jumps on the name.

"Nadir hired her. She worked with the stage crew and applied to work with security. Nadir thought having some women would be a good idea and – please do not tell him I said so – may have turned out to be a superb idea," he says. "Let us get you dressed and we shall go. I shall explain more on the way."

* * *

Raoul paces the room, his shirt untucked and hair mussed from running his hands through it. "I do not see why Monique cannot stay here," he argues.

Phillippe sits at his desk, hands folded, watching his brother's latest temper tantrum. "You cannot just keep moving women into this house on some whim of romantic love," he replies calmly. "The Daae woman left you for the man you were certain was going to kill everyone. He has turned out to be one of the sanest people I have ever met."

"You think I am crazy?" Raoul asks, throwing himself on the settee.

Phillippe rolls his eyes. "No. I think you are still in pain from those events," Phillippe answers. "You tried to kill someone and yourself, Raoul. I am happy that you have met someone who cares about you, but I am not sure that bringing her to live, even temporarily is good for either one of you."

"This man kidnapped her and raped her," Raoul argues.

"You are making my point for me," Phillippe says trying hard to maintain his calm. "She has been through an extreme trauma herself. She feels safe now where she is – why uproot her from that?"

"You think she is a whore."

"No, I do not – you told me of her background. She hails from a good family," he responds. "I believe I may have even met her father. He should know of this, by the way, but that is not my concern."

"You know the Baron?"

"I might have met him – which is not knowing him," Phillippe corrects him. "That is not the point. I am concerned about both of you, believe it or not."

"Then what shall I do?"

"Think of a way that you can see her that does not involve disrupting her life and ours here at the house."

There is a knock on the door.

"Enter," Phillippe calls out.

"There is a delivery for you, M. Le Comte," Stephan, the major domo, advises, "from M. Saint-Rien – a boy named Andre says he has some plans."

"Show him in," Phillippe tells him, rising from his chair.

Andre walks briskly into the room holding several rolls of paper, almost matching his height. "M. le Comte, M. Erik asked me to give these to you personally."

Phillippe takes the plans and lays them on a sideboard, pushing aside the books stacked there.

"You work at the Opera House?" Phillippe asks.

"Yes, sir, M. Erik is also teaching me to sing and play the violin and piano," Andre announces proudly.

"Indeed," Phillippe smiles. "You are a man of many talents."

Andre bends his head and shuffles his feet. "I am trying. I work to help my Maman."

"Your father?"

"Died in the Siege." The wide smile on his face fades.

"You were just a baby…"

"Yes, but things are better now." He brightens again. "M. Robert took Maman, but M. Nadir helped her, then we stayed with M. Erik and Mme. Christine and he gave me clothes, and Mme. Christine sings songs with me, then Mme. Giry and M. Erik gave Maman a new job and she drew pictures of M. Robert. Oh, and M. Erik gave us a new place to live…and we bought shoes." He takes a deep breath, "And I got a kitten – her name is Erika, she is black and white and has a black patch over one eye like M. Erik's mask."

"Indeed?" Phillippe laughs. "That is quite a story."

"You say that M. Robert took your mother?" Raoul sits up straight, reaching out to turn the boy toward him.

"Yes, M. le Vicomte." The boy nods briskly. "We were going home from the Opera House and he grabbed her. He had a mask on, but Maman is sure it was him."

"But he let her go?"

"He pushed her out of the carriage after hitting her."

"Do you know why?"

"She was not Mme. Christine – at least that is what I heard the grown-ups say. Maman was wearing a dress and cape that Mme. Christine gave her."

Raoul exchanges a look with Phillippe. "I am concerned for Monique's safety. I intend to continue seeing her, but if there is some chance he sees me with her, then both of us are in danger as well. Do you still believe that my idea is crazy?"

"I suppose not," Phillippe sighs. "Talk to Stephan and have him set up a suitable room for Mlle. Du Bois."

"I shall drive you back to the Opera House if you would like, Andre," Raoul tells the boy. "Just allow me to get my jacket and hat." Turning to his brother, he says, "Thank you."

Phillippe waves a hand at him. "Andre, I would like you to deliver a note to M. Erik. Please have a seat while I compose it and Raoul gets ready."

"Yes, Monsieur." Andre frowns as he sits on the settee, "You are not angry with M. le Vicomte because of me? I only want to help."

"No, young man," Phillippe says, pulling a sheet of stationary from the top drawer of his desk. "You have been very informative." He completes his note, folds it and puts it into an envelope. Holding a stick of red wax over the envelope, he uses his lighter to melt some onto the back, then seals it with a monogrammed stamp. Standing up, he holds the envelope out to Andre. "Here you are," Phillippe says, then reaches into his pocket and offers Andre several franc notes.

"Thank you, M. le Comte, but M. Erik told me not to take any money you might offer – he said this was part of the service of Phantom Security."

Raoul re-enters the room. "Are you ready, Andre?"

"Yes, monsieur." To Phillippe, "I will be certain he gets this letter as soon as I get back. I think it would be all right if M. le Vicomte allows me to ride with him."

"I am certain that would be fine with him," Phillippe concurs.

* * *

Nadir sifts through the notes he has jotted on index cards related to Georges Robert Boudreaux. Darius, Henri and Giselle sit waiting for Erik. Giselle in Erik's chair, the men in the visitor's chairs. Nadir does not want to necessitate them repeating everything twice, so they wait. Their fatigue is evident in the repeated yawns, their exhaustion not being mitigated at all by the strong tea Nadir has served them.

Nadir starts at the voice whispering in his ear _._

" _Are you alone?"_

"So, Darius," he says loudly, "how long did you say it took to drive to the inn?"

"Perhaps ten hours and ten to return – almost an entire day," Darius says, frowning.

"Right. Right. Well, let us wait a bit longer," Nadir says. "I am certain Erik will be here shortly."

" _Christine and I will be there in a moment. We shall use the mirror in her dressing room."_

"Refreshments, anyone?" Nadir asks, an uncomfortable smile on his face. He rises from his chair – preparing to fulfill any requests.

Each of them holds up a cup taking a sip of the tea.

"Of course…"

The door opens – Erik and Christine bustle in.

"My apologies for being late," Erik says, looking around for a place to rest Christine's dresses. "This office really is too small."

Darius jumps up from his chair and offers it to Christine. "Mme. Saint-Rien, please."

"Oh, Darius, I am Christine." She takes the seat and holds her arms out for the dresses. Erik lays them across her lap.

"Giselle Beauchamp and, you already know, Henri," Nadir says.

"Pleased to meet you, Giselle," Christine says. "I am told that you are a very talented woman and a great addition to the business." Observing the disarray of her clothing and hair, she continues, "Please do not think me rude, but you appear to have met with an accident. Are you injured?" She looks at Henri, raising an eyebrow.

The young carriage driver, blinks his brown eyes hard, his freckled cheeks turn bright pink and his normally charming gap-toothed grin fails him. "There was no accident, Mme. Christine, honestly. Mlle. Giselle rode inside the coach the entire time – with an extra blanket – that M. Nadir ordered for her. We…" he nods his head toward Darius, "took as best care of her as we could, I took extra time on the bumpiest parts of the road."

Darius takes up Henri's argument, looking at Giselle. "It was a long night for all of us, we have not slept. However, Giselle did suffer at the hands of M. Robert."

"What happened?" Erik asks, his fists clenching. "This was not my intention – when you were asked to assist Henri and Darius," he tells her. "There was to be no threat to you – they were instructed to intercede if the man was abusive."

"It was not their fault," Giselle says.

"What was not their fault?" Erik examines her more closely.

Her hair is still tied back with the bit of fabric torn from her petticoat – the petticoat hanging below the hem of her skirt. The bodice of her dress is askew and the cape is streaked with dirt.

"How is it that the two of you are still in pristine apparel, while this young woman looks as if she has been dragged down a road?" Christine demands of the two men.

"Because I _was_ dragged – not down a road, but across a floor," Giselle remarks. "As I said, it was not their fault. I was only supposed to engage M. Robert in conversation at the inn as directed, but things took a different turn."

* * *

" _You are a pretty little thing – such beautiful hair. My mother had beautiful hair,"_ he said reaching to touch her locks.

" _Monsieur, you are too kind,"_ she replied.

It was apparent that he had already consumed a sizable amount of whiskey, his breath stank and his clothing, although rich in quality, was dirty and wrinkled, his words slurred. Her knowledge of alcohol consumption, gained from working with the stage staff at the opera house, informed her that he would be talkative, but might become amorous and, if rebuffed, abusive. Caution must be taken. Moving closer to him, she removed the vial of laudanum she carried to deal with the residual pain from her broken leg from her reticule. To distract him, she allowed her reticule to fall to the floor – as he bent to pick it up, she dosed his whiskey.

" _Thank you, I am so clumsy,"_ she said, taking the purse from him. " _Why is such a fine looking gentleman as yourself staying at this inn? I would think you would prefer the hotels in the city."_

" _Since I have business in Rouen and travel back and forth, I purchased this inn to provide me with accommodation when traveling, it has suited me well. I did not become a successful business man by squandering funds on high-priced facilities."_ Throwing back the remnants of the whisky, he ordered another. _"What was that you served me?"_ he demanded of the barkeep. _"It was bitter."_

" _The whiskey was as you ordered, M. Robert,"_ the balding man responded. His bulk was deceiving, he visibly shook as he answered his customer. _"I shall open a new bottle to be certain that the taste suits you. For you, mademoiselle?"_

Giselle shakes her head. _"Thank you, no."_

" _So where was I?"_ he asked, leaning into her.

" _Do you travel to Paris often?"_

" _Do you?"_

Giselle laughed. _"Actually, no. I live in a small flat – close to the Palais Garnier. I am employed there. This was a trip for family – I am returning home."_

" _A dancer?"_ he leaned back to observe her body, such as could be seen beyond her clothing.

" _No longer – I suffered an injury. I work in maintenance – cleaning, that sort of thing."_

The bartender delivered the fresh drink to M. Robert. _"Will there be anything else, monsieur…mademoiselle?"_

Giselle shook her head, _"I should be leaving – I only wanted a rest-over during my journey. The meal was most excellent. I should like to take care of my bill."_

M. Robert put a hand on her arm, _"Allow me, mademoiselle…"_

" _Giselle,"_ she smiled at him.

" _Giselle,"_ he repeated, _"I should be pleased to cover your bill."_ To the innkeeper, _"I will take care of it."_

" _Very well."_ He bowed slightly, then returned to his work behind the bar.

" _So, do you know any of the artists at the Opera House?"_

" _Yes, some."_

" _The singer – Daae?"_

" _I see her there, yes, but I do not know her."_

" _But you would know where her dressing room is?"_

" _Of course. Why?"_

" _I am a great admirer of her singing and will be attending the reception after the performance, thanks to the Vicomte de Chagny. I had hoped to bring her a gift personally, however – before the show. So often gifts get lost or not delivered. I would need someone to help me locate her."_

" _I see."_

He stood up, holding onto the table for purchase, _"Come to my room, I will show you what I want to give to her."_

" _I really must return home,"_ she argued.

" _It will take only a moment, I shall not keep you,"_ he insisted taking her arm, his fingers digging in.

She rose, taking a deep breath and followed him out the back door. Looking over her shoulder, she saw Darius watching their activity.

Shaking his head, he mouthed the word – no.

With a shrug of her shoulders, she disappeared out the back door into what turned out to be an enclosed passageway to another part of the building.

* * *

Throwing some franc notes on the bar, Darius ran to the back of the room to follow the couple, but was stopped by the innkeeper. _"No exit. The door is for boarders only."_

" _My… customer left through that door – I have her carriage waiting outside. I must speak with her."_

" _She will return when M. Robert is ready for her to leave. I suggest you buy yourself another brew and wait."_ The man folds his broad arms across his chest, blocking the door.

Frustrated, he goes out to the carriage and lets Henri know what has happened, the runs around to the side of the inn – but saw nothing in the darkness to identify where she might have gone. The main building had another structure added that looked to be a barn. From where he was standing, all he could see was two windows that were dark. Rounding to the back of the building was a wooden door, bolted from the inside. The opposite side of the building was much the same as what he had already seen – two darkened windows, no other doors.

Once again, he returns to the carriage, letting him know what he found. _"I shall walk around the building again and monitor that area. Keep a close eye on the front." Allah, please allow no harm to come to her._

* * *

Giselle asked, _"Would you not wish to give her the gift yourself?"_ The hallway is pitch dark – she struggled to keep her footing. Keeping up the conversation helped her keep fear at bay.

" _Oh, no,"_ he replied. _"Meeting her after the performance will be sufficient. I would, however, like to enter the theater before the performance to avoid the crowds and find my seat. I could meet you and once inside, I could give you the present to offer her._ Reaching what appeared to be the end of the hallway, he unlocks a door and pushes it open. _"Here we are."_

Giselle notes another door a few meters from them before he pulls her into a small room. _"It is not much, but I had this built for myself and to serve other travelers seeking overnight accommodations – there are four rooms. It is more private than the rooms inside the inn."_

" _Well, you certainly are a good businessman_ ," Giselle said, rubbing her arm that he finally released.

Once inside, he lit a lantern, then walked to a dresser, opening the top drawer to remove a silver, heart-shaped locket. _"It was my mother's,"_ he said. _"I thought Mlle. Daae would like it."_

" _She is Mme. Saint-Rien now, I believe, although she uses Daae as her stage name,"_ Giselle informed him.

" _Yes, the wife of Erik Saint-Rien,"_ he said more to himself than to her. With a more congenial voice, he said, _"He may not wish her to have this. That is why I wanted her to receive it before the opera, so as not to cause any embarrassment. Who would refuse the gift of a remembrance of a man's mother?"_

" _I would not know about that,"_ Giselle told him – the rationale seemed odd to her, but she was not wont to challenge him. _"You could give it to her yourself, you know. Just enter with the other workers or artists at the rear of the Palais. I will be expected to work and might not be able to meet with you."_

" _What about all that security business I have heard about?"_ he asked.

" _Oh, that. It is mostly for the dancers. They are not so careful about the rest of the building,"_ she replied. _"La Daae has the first dressing room, so she does not have to walk too far."_

" _A princess?"_ he goaded her.

" _The wife of the maestro – what would you expect?"_ Her voice filled with scorn, hoping to convince him of her allegiance to him.

" _Well, I shall keep that as an option."_ That settled, he pulled her toward him again, forcing his lips on her.

Although anticipating something like this, he still took her by surprise. _Damn._ Fighting the bile rising in her throat, she allowed the kiss and his pulling down her bodice and grasping her around the waist. Losing her footing as she was dragged to the bed, she fell. He lifted her up and tossed her onto the mattress, stumbling over a rag rug, a minor attempt at decoration, and lost his own balance.

His movements were sluggish, his attempts to pull himself up were awkward, but he managed to position himself next to her, never losing his grip on her arm. _The laudanum was finally working._ Hoping to prevent his further abuse toward her, she became the aggressor – tugging at his trousers, the fly came unbuttoned. As hoped, he assisted her. Releasing her arm, he completed the task of pulling off the woolen pants, kicking them to the edge of the bed. With both hands free, she balanced herself with the left as her right hand grabbed his member. _"Here, let me take care of you."_ The promise in her voice and the sensation of her touch evoked a series of low groans and an ugly laugh – she stroked and pulled – manipulating him to orgasm. A final sharp twist of his shaft and a hard squeeze to his scrotal sac elicited another moan as he passed out.

* * *

"Had I the presence of mind, and not concerned that he would rouse, I would have cut the thing off. We would have been done with the bastard." Lifting her skirt to remove the small ornate knife with a jeweled handle tucked in her garter, she holds it up to display the double-edged blade.

Henri swallows hard, his Adam's apple bobs as he shifts in his chair.

Christine draws in a sharp breath, covers her mouth and glances at Erik.

Nadir and Erik, folding their hands in front of them, side eye one another and then Darius, who maintains his perfect posture, looking straight ahead.

"Why did you not tell me this," he asks her – his voice cold.

"What could you have done? I allowed him to take me by surprise and did not put enough laudanum in his drink. He was a bull, I misjudged him."

"I might have gone back to deal with him – or help you deal with him."

"What, murder him? Then _we_ would have been in trouble," she retorts. "The authorities would think I was just a prostitute and you my pimp trying to rob the businessman – killing him in the process."

Darius lowers his head. "You are correct," he sighs. "I just wish I could have stopped things from going as far as they did."

Giselle shakes her head. "I managed to acquire more information from him about his intentions. But for some roughing up and some torn clothing, I am well." Straightening herself to take in a deep breath, she tells him, "I was doing my job, just as you were – just as Henri was."

The room grows silent again as each of them assesses what they now know of M. Robert and his tactics.

Erik is the first to break the silence. " _You_ raped _him_." Giving his head a sharp shake, he considers what was just told to all of them and chuckles. "Next to my beloved wife and my dearest friend, Adele Giry, you are, perhaps, the most amazing woman I have ever known. You are a formidable adversary. You were a formidable team." The last directed toward Darius. Staring at him with his golden eyes to be certain the man acknowledged him and understood what he was saying.

Darius nodded. "Thank you, M. Erik."

Nadir clears his throat. "I am not sure what to say. I am deeply sorry this happened to you. And, yes, I agree with Erik, you are quite an amazing woman." He shuffles the note cards. "It appears that he owns the inn. We can track that down," Nadir says. "It also appears to be the place where he took Monique. We would need some sort of authority to do any sort of search, but, perhaps Henri and Darius could return to do some further investigation – questioning neighbors."

"Excuse me," Christine interrupts. "Whatever the outcome and information you have gleaned from Giselle recalling the assault, it was still abuse directed at her and I think that she needs to be given some consideration here – both for her efforts and her physical wellbeing at the moment."

The eyes shift to her.

"I intended no insult to Giselle," Nadir argues. "In fact, I was attempting to finish this up so that she…they could go home."

"Our late arrival was my fault, I apologize." Christine mollifies her tone. "However, she needs to freshen herself and don some clean…new clothing," Christine tells him. To Giselle, she says, "I have three dresses here, newly made and never worn, of which you have your choice. There are new underthings in my dressing room that you may also have to replace your ruined garments." She stands up, handing one dress to Erik, one to Darius and holds the last one herself. "Choose the one you might like to have."

Giselle's eyes widen at Christine's offer.

Erik smiles at her and holds up the gray and green gabardine dress he had chosen for Christine many months before. Tipping his head at Giselle, he asks, "Does this please you – or the blue, or the brown?

"I believe I do prefer the gray and green," she whispers.

Christine puts the brown dress on the chair, takes the striped dress with the pleated white bib from Erik and holds out her hand to Giselle. "Come, you deserve some care."

Giselle rises and joins her. "A wash would be welcome."

As she opens the door, Christine finds Raoul and Andre preparing to knock. "Raoul. Andre. Come in," she tells them and continues with Giselle into the hallway. "Make notes, I expect to hear everything when we return."

Erik laughs and once again shifts the attention to himself. "That is my wife," he announces proudly. "Gentlemen, I am glad you are here. Mlle. Giselle told us quite a story and we need to discuss our plans – we may have to alter them or adopt two plans."

Andre tugs on Erik's jacket. "M. Erik, le Comte gave me a note for you. He asked that you read it at once," he says, handing him the fine stationary.

Erik breaks the seal with his elegant forefinger and pulls out the single sheet of paper. "Phillippe is offering us his assistance. He is willing to speak with the Inspector." He looks at Raoul. "What brought this about?"

"My brother is quite impressed with young Andre," Raoul replies.

"There is much to admire," Erik smiles down at the boy, who beams up at him. "Still…"

"He told us the story about his mother and how you and Christine helped them. Oh, and he refused a tip."

"Is that so?" Erik asks Andre.

"Yes, monsieur – as you instructed."

"Good man."

"And he is considering hiring Andre to tutor me," Raoul says.

Eriks looks at Nadir, who is chuckling.

Erik smiles, "A joke?"

Raoul smiles back. "Yes…well…maybe not entirely."

* * *

 **A/N** Thank you to all of the wonderful comments I have received on this piece. Your reviews are so appreciated.


	27. Comeuppance

**A/N - Sorry to anyone who received the email for this earlier (10/13/18) I forget to separate my scenes! Please enjoy - this is likely the next to last chapter. You all have my deepest appreciation for reading my story and hanging in there. Hope this chapter was worth the wait.)**

COMEUPPANCE

Dappled light coming from the two floor to ceiling windows, draped in a deep blue and gold brocade welcomes Monique to her new, if temporary, bedroom. A four-poster bed, canopied with the same brocade sits against the wall facing the windows. Although not a particularly large boudoir, the room Monique shared with Meg was miniscule in comparison.

"This is much as what I have at home," she says to Raoul who stands behind her, awaiting her approval. "I had become accustomed to smaller accommodations and this borders on lavish."

"So it is all right?" he asks, walking past her to put her valise and some dresses that he carries over his arm next to the antiqued white armoire. Leaving the suitcase on the floor, he hangs the dresses inside the cabinet.

"Quite all right," she replies as she takes the opportunity to look out the windows to the tree-lined street. "Oh, a balcony."

"There is a bathroom through that door – private – and your door has a lock," He shows her the mechanism. "Erik's company is installing a security system, but will not be working in this wing for the moment, so the workers will not disturb you."

"That is somewhat amusing. He has already put in the security at Madame Giry's, so in some ways I am less protected here than would be had I stayed put," she laughs.

"I must admit, this move has more to do with me wishing for us to be close than a security system. However, I assure you that you will be entirely protected here," he says. "Come, I want you to see where my room is. Phillippe insisted that we not be too close, but I am right down the hall. The house is large, but is not a castle."

Monique follows him down the hallway. Raoul's bedroom is at the opposite end of the hall, but, as he noted, a short walk, just not adjacent.

"Here we are," he announces as he opens the door. The room is actually smaller than the one given to her. It still resembles that of a schoolboy – plain – a single bed, dresser and desk. Some nondescript art on the walls, but still has the double window with a balcony.

"Nice to see you have a balcony, the street view is lovely with the tree so close," she comments.

Raoul nods, resisting the urge to tell her about the visit he received from Erik to that balcony. It would just frighten her and, he had to admit, force him to relive a past he was desperately trying to leave behind. Hopefully she would be his future.

Walking to his dresser, he opens the top drawer and removes his revolver to show her. "This is my security system."

"Oh, a gun," she holds her hand out to see it. "Beautifully crafted – a Lefaucheaux. How many shots?"

"Six."

She holds the gun out, aiming it at the window, then doing a quick turn to aim it at him.

"Whoa," he gasps, pushing her arm down, "it is loaded. Do you shoot?"

"Oh, yes, my father made certain that my sister and I were as well trained as my brothers in many skills – shooting being one of them."

"You are a woman of many facets. I am not certain I am worthy of you."

She laughs softly, patting him on the cheek. "You do not carry the gun with you?"

"No, I find it best to keep it here."

"Really? Interesting," she says. "May I return to my room, now? I should like to unpack my things."

"Of course," Raoul says, "In having you move here, it was not my intention to occupy all of your time. Dinner will be served in an hour – will that give you sufficient time to unpack and rest?" He steps back for her to pass in front of him to lead the way out the door to the hallway, putting his hand on her back.

"Yes," she responds, increasing her pace to pull away from his touch. "These other rooms?"

"Unoccupied for now," he tells her, letting his hand fall to his side. "My sisters, when they visit use them or other visitors."

"Your brother?"

"His bedroom is actually next to his office downstairs – he keeps odd hours and found it more comfortable for everyone to not be stumbling about going up and down stairs late at night." Reaching her room, he says, "Here we are." Opening the door wide, he ushers her in. "Can I get you anything?"

"No, I shall be fine, I think," she says. "Will someone notify me about dinner?"

"I will attend to you personally," Raoul smiles. Taking a deep breath. "I am so pleased you decided to stay here – at least until M. Robert is dealt with."

"It was most kind of you to ask me." Touching his cheek once more, she stands on tiptoe to kiss him in the same spot. "In an hour, then?"

"Yes." Stepping forward to embrace her, she retreats. Nodding, he leaves, closing the door behind him.

Once inside the room, standing with arms stiff at her sides, balling hands into fists, digging nails into her palms, she clenches her jaw as tears run down her cheeks. Screaming is not an option, even in the solitude of this room, in this fortress of a house. Would she never be able to scream?

Raoul is so sweet and kind, but even the most innocent of his touches make her skin crawl. How long will her vague gestures and kisses keep him at bay from wanting more from her beyond even a simple embrace like that which she just rejected?

Tossing her bag on the bed, she unpacks her nightwear and underthings, placing then in the drawers of the small dresser. She hangs her cloak in the armoire next to the gowns. Lastly, she lifts out a rag doll with hair of rust-colored yarn, a gift from her grandmother when she was a girl afraid of thunderstorms and wind. Her friends had kept it for her during the time she was gone, hoping she would return.

Carrying the toy to the bed, she lies down, curling into the fetal position, holding the treasure to her chest for comfort. Closing her eyes, she allows herself to nap.

* * *

Christine and Erik carry their parcels through the gate of the Rue Scribe entrance. The spoils of their shopping trip did not lend themselves to being first carried into the Opera House, and then down through the tunnels. The dresses Christine needed had to be custom made and would be picked up at a later time. These packages were filled with nightwear, under clothing and other miscellany that the dressmaker insisted Christine would need for her term.

A Reboux milliner's shop was next to the dressmaker and Christine found three hats she could not live without – one with an overabundance, in his opinion, of blue and green feathers. Still, she looked absolutely fetching in the bonnet and he could not refuse the purchase. This added three hat boxes to their already extensive assortment of bags and boxes.

The owner of the dressmaker's store remembered him from his earlier visit and was pleased that he chose to come back – promising the dresses she had made earlier would be altered to suit Christine's figure now and would be ready the next day.

" _What do you think of this, Erik? For the summer months – I do favor cambric,"_ Christine gushes as she shows him yet another swatch of fabric that she favors.

" _Are you certain that three dress will suffice – we shall have fall and winter, too?"_

" _Perhaps just the three now,"_ she insists. _"Oh, look at these ribbons – they will go well with the blue. I love this lace with the linen. Do you like the shade of green?"_

It was a pleasure for him to observe her looking at different fabrics. They shared an appreciation for fine things – likely from being without. Still, she was not self-indulgent – insisting that three dresses were sufficient, which he knew was not possible – choosing neutral colors – but splurging a bit on ribbons, bits of lace and whatnots for decoration. These small gestures of hers always brought a swelling to his heart, gratitude for his good fortune having this precious woman in his life.

Erik decided to take the risk that M. Robert would still be at the inn recovering from the night before and had not been following them to the dress shop, waiting outside to follow them back home. As a precaution, he did have Stephan take a circuitous route back to the Garnier to allow someone to make themselves known if they were being followed. Based on the story that Darius and Giselle related, M. Robert was in no condition to be driving into Paris, still, caution was always advised.

They carry their purchases to the bedroom and drop them on the bed.

"I shall sort these things out and put them away," Christine says, wrapping her arms around his waist and nuzzling his chin with her nose. "Go have yourself a brandy, you have earned it. I shall change into one of these dressing gowns and join you shortly." She pushes him out of the room, closing the door behind him.

Following Christine's instructions, he pours himself a small brandy – just enough to relax. For someone whose relationship with God was distant at best, he was feeling so blessed. If only they did not have to deal with that madman. The story Darius and Giselle related today only made him more determined to end that man's reign of terror on women. It was important to keep his rage at bay – the man was unbalanced, but he was sly – the combination could be deadly and Erik wanted no one harmed in taking him down – particularly his beloved.

* * *

" _Giselle gave him a decent dose of the laudanum, but he is a large man. With the alcohol and drug, I suspect that he is greatly distressed, even if he is mobile,"_ Darius said.

" _More important than his being able to travel today, is what you have told us – we have to re-evaluate what his thinking is about kidnapping Christine and/or killing me,"_ Erik said. _"I am inclined to believe the kidnapping for ransom scenario, which makes her protection even more imperative."_

" _Do you still believe he will do something at the reception?"_ Raoul asked.

Nadir replied, " _I doubt it. Giselle essentially told him that he could come into the Opera House any time he wanted, to just walk in with the workman and the cast through the back door. That is – if he believed her."_

" _There is no reason for him not to."_ Darius countered.

" _The drug?"_ Raoul questioned.

" _Possibly,"_ Nadir replied. _"Still, he may just think that he just drank too much and she got the better of him to escape. She gave him information – where she works, where Christine's dressing room is. All things he can verify."_

" _That may be where I come in,"_ Raoul suggested. _"I think it would be a good idea if I took to visiting the cabaret in the event he shows up. He still believes that I am supporting him as far as we know – based on Giselle's account."_

" _True enough. Even if he shows up without meeting with you, everyone know what he looks like, thanks to Veronique,"_ Erik said.

" _I could keep watch,"_ Andre chimed in. _"No one notices me."_

" _A sad truth that we could work to our advantage,"_ Erik replied. _"My guess is he will either make his move the day of the opening, before the show, when there are crowds of people – or the day before the opening when there will be no people about to notice him."_

" _What do you think your brother might have in mind regarding help?"_ Nadir asked Raoul.

" _He mentioned nothing of it to me, but I would suppose calling upon his relationship with the Inspector to arrest Robert before he could do anything."_

" _I have already approached him,"_ Nadir said. _"Frankly he could not care less about any of the attacks against Monique or Giselle or any other woman. I often wonder exactly why they were so anxious to help you, M. le Vicomte."_

" _You just answered your own question – I am le Vicomte."_

" _I fear we are on our own,"_ said Erik drolly. _"Which might be as well – your police almost killed me."_

Raoul acknowledged the comment with a wry smile.

" _So we plan for both nights?"_ Darius asked.

" _That would seem to be the best idea – Erik appears to have everything set up now for the most part,"_ Nadir advised. _"Correct, my friend?"_

" _Correct."_

A loud snore attracted their attention. Poor Henri had fallen asleep in his chair, his head propped up on his hand, elbow balanced on the edge of the desk.

" _I think once Giselle returns, the three of you need to go home and get some sleep."_ Nadir told Darius. _"I need my best people rested and alert."_

* * *

Erik allows himself to relax, lying on the settee, head resting on the velvet arm, long legs dangling, feet just touching the floor, his snifter balanced on his stomach - bliss. Finally able to leave the meeting behind and just enjoy his home. Home. Hearing the bedroom door open, he sits up placing the glass on the coffee table, he turns to face Christine. "I am so happy to be home, no work, no people other than the two of us, my dear, you…look, um, stunning."

"'Um, stunning,' is it?" Christine bows her head, puckering her full lips into a seductive smile. The black silk dressing gown with its fluted sleeves and edges trimmed in delicate black lace, falls gracefully from her shoulders to the floor. The sheer fabric hugs her lush body – her baby body – as she saunters toward him. Every element that Erik told her he loved about her that morning embraced and enhanced by the simple cut of the negligee.

"Heart stopping, actually. I did not see this at the dress shop," he manages to muster, his fingers digging into his thighs.

"You were not supposed to." She shakes her head, wagging a finger at him. "No more of that business with your hands."

The attempt to calm his hands evolves no further than stretching them and rubbing his thighs instead of gouging them. Breathing deepens when she situates herself directly in front of him. "I seem to recall you saying something about my breasts – liking how full they were becoming." She tugs at the ribbons securing the gown.

The wrapper falls open to frame her naked body – the black a stunning counterpoint to her pale cream complexion. The exposed breasts are indeed fuller, the areolas wider than he remembered – a darker pink as well. The changes make him aware of how long it has been since he actually looked at her. Their couplings were often and many, but touch took precedence over visually admiring her lush beauty.

His long fingers stroke and caress them with delicacy, his earlier tension dissolved. _"I think you're beautiful,"_ he sings under his breath. _"So very beautiful."_

"What is that you are singing?" Christine asks.

" _Just a song in my head."_ With the backs of his fingers, he gently brushes each nipple watching as they pucker responding to his touch. His hands drift down to her belly, cupping the newly rounded flesh, he smiles at the barest of mounds that replaced her formerly flat stomach. _"Floating and lovely and bold."_

Her hips, too, seem to have expanded – necessary to carry the child as she grows, he runs his hands over them, fondling her buttocks. Balancing a palm on each hip, attention is paid to the hollows between her abdomen and thighs, leading finally to her mons Veneris, delightfully masked with chestnut-colored curls.

" _So very beautiful…_ " He ends the song. "I trust I have validated each comment I expressed about loving the changes to your body."

Drawing her closer to him, he kisses the promise of the child growing inside of her. Their baby. Tears form and he allows them to flow unheeded as he rests his head against her.

Christine cradles his head, twirling his fine hair with her fingers. "The song was from your opera."

The golden eyes look up to her. "Did you like it?"

"I loved all of it. _It was so beautiful._ Now may I have an encore of kisses?"

* * *

Energy thrums through him – a combination of rage, fear, excitement – feelings so strong he must fight to contain them. Pacing the office that has always seemed too small to contain him, feels even more stifling with this built up angst. The situation has taken him back to the days in Persia when he prepared to display one of his new ideas to the little sultana. Hours of planning – creating was heady stuff – the creation was always the thrilling element. His nightmares proved that carrying out these fantasies was deadly to his soul. This outcome would be personal for him, though – taking down a monster. He was familiar with monsters – he had been one for many years. Now this incarnation of the devil threatens his new life and he will have none of it.

* * *

" _You are certain of what you are to do?"_ he asked Christine, after drilling his plan for her one more time beyond the other fifty.

" _I am,"_ she insisted. _"I feel as though you are my singing instructor again – working on the cadenza I shall be singing."_ The lightness of her tone intended to calm him. His tension is raw, so she had to be content with a simple concession to his instructions. _"I shall trust you on this, truly."_

" _I did not wish you to be a part of this, but it cannot be avoided, if only for the short period of time you will be exposed to him."_

" _How do you know that this will be when he will act?"_

" _No audience – a dress rehearsal – you are alone on the stage – it is the end of the opera – no one is paying attention to you. Or so he assumes, I hope."_ He explains. _"He would probably prefer grabbing you when you were alone outside – he has proven that. He also knows that will not happen. He has observed us enough. This is his best opportunity."_

Despite the presence of his mask, the darkness behind his words was palpable. No words would suffice, a short nod was her response. She was pleased that their previous evening was so filled with hope and love – life-affirming love.

* * *

Nadir enters the office, interrupting Erik's ruminations. "I have checked everything thrice over. The entire cast and crew are prepared to become invisible to the extent possible when Christine completes her aria," he says, sitting down in his chair at the desk. "Are you certain this will work?"

"No. Damn it," Erik snarls. "Were it up to me, I would just lasso him and dump him in the Seine."

"No one would be the wiser," Nadir comments.

"Is that so?" Erik side-eyes him. "To begin with, I would know. What I did without blinking an eye thirty years ago – God has it been that long? Suffice it to say, I would know. You would know. Most importantly, Christine would know." Sitting down on the gray wool sofa they brought in to supplement the visitors' chairs, he leans forward, elbows resting on his knees, holding his head in his hands. "I no longer have whatever it was in me that took a perverted joy in killing – or perhaps it was never _in_ me, I simply lacked what was needed to fill that space. This must be done so there is no doubt he is the villain, the police will deal with him accordingly." Raising his head he looks to see if Nadir understands.

The Daroga nods. "You have changed over these few months – I would never have thought it could happen."

"You believed I was ruined?"

"I hoped not. It was touch and go for a while," he laughs.

"Christine saved my life – despite all evidence that it was not worth saving," he admits. "She must not come to any harm – the stress is not good for her and the baby."

"Well, we have planned everything to the last detail – all we need now is our prey," Nadir comments.

* * *

"What do you plan to do today?" Raoul asks Monique as they eat the croissants, cheese and fruit the cook has set out for them. They sit in a small breakfast nook, set in a bay window overlooking the garden at the rear of the house.

"I thought I would go to the Opera House and practice, I really dislike having too much time by myself. Dancing has always been my way of dealing with stress," Monique responds. "Would it be possible for your coachman to drive me?"

"Are you certain you want to dance – you must be exhausted? Was not this day off for resting?" Raoul argues. "As for the coach – Phillippe has the chaise and, unfortunately, I have a meeting today, so must take the other."

"I do not suppose you could drop me off?"

Shaking his head, he says, "It is out of the city, in the opposite direction of the Palais – in fact, I am already running late." He stands up and gives her a kiss on the forehead.

"But…"

"I hate to leave you here on your own, but there are a number of books in the library you might like to read," he apologizes. "It never occurred to me that you would not wish to be still." Before leaving he turns back. "I shall complete my business as quickly as I can – we can have a lovely dinner out and perhaps take in the show at Comedie-Francaise. How does that sound?"

Her smile is wan. "That sounds wonderful." The tone is unconvinced, but she seemingly has no choice. _Yet another man wanting to hold her hostage – her father, M. Robert and now Raoul_. "Hurry, you do not want to cause any upset by being late."

* * *

" _We thought it would be best if Monique was not present at today's rehearsal – we are having two, so that she is secure in her performance. As for the others, rehearsals never hurt anyone."_ Adele says. _"I am still concerned over how she feels about her abuser still being free."_

" _Won't she find out?" Raoul asks._

" _Only if someone tells her – as far as she knows, this is an off day to rest."_ Erik tells him.

" _So you do believe he will strike today?"_ Raoul pursues his questioning.

" _That is our hope,"_ Nadir says. _"If he does not appear today, we have tomorrow. Our consensus is that he will not attempt anything at the opening."_

" _I have not seen him at the cabaret."_

" _If I were a betting man – I suspect he will meet you as planned, having achieved his goal. He would want to see how we would deal with the absence of our prima donna."_

* * *

Raoul rushes from the house, walking to the carriage house to rouse his coachman. "I must go to the Opera House now," he says. "I apologize for not giving you more notice."

Monique watches him from the window. _Odd the coachman not having the carriage prepared. Hard to believe the house is poorly run – Phillippe, from all appearances is a stickler for correctness._ "So he lied to me." _Why? Likely trying to protect me from something. There is no doubt of his love – or what he believes to be love._

A million ideas run through her head, but his agitation materialized when she mentioned the Opera House. So it was there she needed to go.

Pushing her plate aside, she rises from the table and returns to her room to retrieve her black cape, tossing it over her shoulders. Packing her bag with her rehearsal clothes and ballet shoes, she makes one more stop before leaving and is on her way.

* * *

Andre is at his post inside the stage door, tucked into a cubby in the Stage Manager's office where he can see everyone coming and going. An alarm button has been set up to notify Nadir in the office if M. Robert finds his way in. When that happens, he is to ascertain where the patron goes and alert Erik, who, in his restlessness will be maintaining his own reconnaissance of the auditorium.

 _Monsieur Erik, can you hear me?_

 _Indeed I can, young Andre. You are a most wonderful student._

 _Where are you?_

 _Look up._

Erik waves at him from the fly loft above stage left. Giselle keeps her own watch from stage center. Erik acknowledges her, touching his hand to his forehead.

The orchestra cues up and the dress rehearsal begins. Watching Christine from this position, he could not be more proud – not only of her voice, but her presence on the stage – she truly is a prima donna. The severed head could be a bouquet of flowers for all the discontent it causes her. So often, performers do not give much energy to rehearsals, but Christine uses it as a tool, so that the audience will see her very best, using the rehearsal to try new ideas.

Before leaving his perch, Erik signals to Giselle to come to where he has been sitting before he returns to stage level to make a final check of the props set up to trap his childhood nemesis.

HANNIBAL proceeds according to plan and Christine's final aria is coming up.

 _Monsieur Erik, Mlle. Monique just came in._

 _What? Where did she go?_

 _Stage left, in the wings somewhere. She is wearing a black cape and hood – I lost sight of her._

She must have run behind him, so quietly even he did not hear her. Of course she was aware of the plan, everyone knew what was supposed to happen – but she was told it would be tomorrow. Why was she here, he wanted to know. Damn Raoul.

* * *

Nadir and Adele sit in the Security office. Every so often he would smile at her and she would smile back – then each would return to their own musings.

"Waiting is the worst," she comments.

The mirror opens and Erik joins them. "Is he here?"

"Who?"

"Raoul," he says. "Monique just came in the stage door and is hiding backstage somewhere."

"How do you know?"

"Andre."

There is a knock on the door. "Come," Nadir says.

Raoul walks in, breathing hard – trying to catch his breath. "Robert just left the cabaret."

"Dear God." Erik turns to go back through the mirror. "Tell him…" he says to Nadir and leaves.

"What?"

"Monique is here. How did that happen?"

"No. I should not have left her. She wanted to come here to practice, wanted to borrow the carriage. I told her I needed it and left."

The alarm sounds.

"He is here."

* * *

Christine sings:

 _Think of me, think of me fondly_ _  
_ _When we've said goodbye_ _  
_ _Remember me, once in a while_ _  
_ _Please, promise me you'll try_ _  
_ _And you'll find that once again you long_ _  
_ _To take your heart back and be free_ _  
_ _If you ever find a moment_ _  
_ _Spare a thought for me_ _  
_ _We never said "our love was evergreen"_ _  
_ _Or "as unchanging as the sea"_ _  
_ _But if you can still remember,_ _  
_ _Stop and think of me_ _  
_ _Think of all the things_ _  
_ _We've shared and seen_ _  
_ _Don't think about the way_ _  
_ _Things might have been_ _  
_ _Think of me, think of me waking_ _  
_ _Silent and resigned_ _  
_ _Imagine me trying too hard_ _  
_ _To put you from my mind_ _  
_ _Recall those days, look back on all those times_ _  
_ _Think of the things we'll never do_ _  
_ _There will never be a day_ _  
_ _When I won't think of you_ _  
_

* * *

Musical Interlude…

 _Andre, where is he?_

 _Stage right wings – between the first and second curtains._

 _Anyone else around?_

 _Not that I can see._

 _Any sign of Mlle. Monique?_

 _No._

* * *

 _Flowers fade, the fruit of summer fade_ _  
_ _They have their seasons, so do we_ _  
_ _But please promise me that sometimes_ _  
_ _You will think of me!_

Christine ends her aria with the kneeling bow, then gathers up her scarf, and exits stage left. As Erik directed, rather than immediately leaving the stage, she makes her way to the new ballet mirrors angled to reflect off one another.

Robert watches her from between the curtains before stealthily crossing the stage, keeping close to the backdrop, he creeps along, attempting to make himself smaller.

With the house and stage lights down or dimmed, the glaring illumination of the mirrors threatens to blind her as she approaches and enters the temporary passage to the dressing rooms.

 _Just walk through, my love, shade your eyes with your hand to block the light. Eyes front, do not look at the mirrors, the light and reflections will bother you less. Focus on the dim light at the end._

She nods, listening to Erik's directions as she proceeds. Her nerves demand she quicken her pace as she senses Robert's presence.

 _Do not run yet. Breathe. I am here. It is almost over._

Christine reaches the end of the tunnel, bypassing the first door, she runs to her old dressing room farther down the hallway. Once inside, she closes and bolts the door behind her. Entering her mirror door, she makes her way to the Security office.

Nadir jumps up as she bursts into the office, falling into his arms. "I was so frightened. Once I finished singing and heard Erik's voice, I knew he was here." He guides her to the couch.

"Sit, please."

"I shall take care of her," Adele says.

"I am coming with you," Raouls insists.

"This again? Fine, come. Pray for all of us."

The two men leave.

Adele sits next to Christine, adjusting her wrap to cover her shoulders.

"I am not certain I can just sit and wait," Christine says.

"Nor I," Adele responds. "We can take the longer route, to give the men time – it will likely be safer."

"Let us go, then."

As they open the door to leave, Meg appears in the hallway. "I could not just sit in that room with the others and wait."

The three woman begin their journey down the hallway back to the auditorium.

* * *

The flood of lights stun Robert – disoriented by the multiple images of himself bouncing off one another, he throws his arms up, trying to protect his eyes. Despite this and his stumbling, he is not dissuaded from following her. The creature has stolen everything from him – he must be repaid.

Coming closer to the end of the mirrors, the glare is not as strong – he can see her struggling with the door of her dressing room. It strikes him that the theater is unusually quiet and empty. When the soprano finished her song, everyone seemed to fade into the darkness. Robert hesitates just outside of the tunnel. _He_ would not have left her alone.

 _Ah, too bad, I should like to have seen your expression when you caught up with her._ The voice whispers in his ear.

Erik tugs on a thin rope from his hiding place; the mannequin begins to move.

"Where are you?" Robert spins around.

The lights behind him are turned off, leaving only the ambient glow of the lamps in the hallway leading to the dressing rooms. A trap door behind him opens. The sound and a sudden rush of cold air startles him. Rocking on his heels, he keeps himself from falling in. To his left, a backdrop is lowered, blocking the exit to the stage door.

 _Closer than you think._ Erik removes the Punjab lasso from his pocket, preparing to throw it.

Robert pulls out a revolver, wildly waving his arm back and forth. Another backdrop is lowered to his right – the stage can no longer be accessed. All paths of escape are closed. No one and nothing is moving except the mannequin.

 _Exactly who do you intend to shoot?_

Nadir and Raoul come through the door of Christine's dressing room, knocking the mannequin over, Raoul tripping on the skirt, falling to his knees.

"Them. I shall start with them." A sharp turn has him aiming the gun at the two men. Raoul dodges to his left. Nadir makes a sharp right into the darkness.

The abrupt move gives Erik no chance to throw the lasso, instead he leaps out from behind the curtain to grab Robert's arm, pushing it up. The shot is fired into the air.

"Get down," Erik shouts.

Erik and Robert struggle for the gun. Equally matched in height, Erik is more agile, but Robert is heavier.

Nadir has his gun pulled, but cannot determine where to shoot. "Damn – turn on the lamps," he yells.

The lights come up.

Darius comes up from the trap he opened behind the gunman, leveling his pistol at the two men rolling on the floor.

"Do not shoot," Nadir orders.

"I should have finished the job when we were children." The gun goes off again.

Erik falls on his back, away from Robert, hitting his head on the floor. Shaking it off, he flips over. An attempt to brace himself with both hands fails – his right arm is too weak. With the left, he presses to his knees, struggling to stand.

Robert pushes himself to his feet, fighting to gain his balance, stumbling, but able to point the gun at Erik's head.

Giselle lowers herself on a rope from the fly where she has been guiding the backdrops, to dive at Robert's legs.

Nadir takes aim.

A shot rings out. Then another and another and another and another and another. Each one entering the attacker's body that dances with each strike.

Georges Robert Boudreaux falls to the floor.

Monique stands at the entry to the mirror tunnel. Eyes staring, her arm extended, she continues to squeeze the trigger.

Holstering his own gun, Darius moves to her side, putting an arm around her to guide her away from the trap door. He gently takes the gun from her. "It is done."

Raoul rushes over to them. Recognizing the gun Darius holds, his breath catches. "No. Oh, no."

"What?" Darius asks.

"That is my weapon," he says. "What have I done?"

"We can worry about you later," Darius says, scorning this admission. "Let us get her seated – she is in shock."

Raoul assists him in walking her to a scenery bench to sit on.

"He is dead?" she asks.

"I believe so," Darius replies.

"Good."

Raoul sits down next to her, uncertain as to whether he should attempt to comfort her.

She sits completely still – hands folded in her lap, chin up, face unreadable.

* * *

Nadir glances down at the body – dismissing it – as he walks past going to help Erik who is still on his knees, holding his upper arm.

"It is nothing," he growls.

"Judging from the color of your hand, you are bleeding like a stuck pig – it is not nothing."

"As you say." Succumbing to Nadir, he falls to a sitting position, cringing as the daroga pulls off his jacket and tears the sleeve from his shirt to expose the wound.

"In and out – almost superficial. You are lucky it is only your arm – another inch or two..." With the torn cotton from the shirt, he binds the wound.

"As I said – it is nothing, an inconvenience," Erik growls. "Who shot him? You?"

"No."

"Monique?"

"Stop talking, we still need to get you to a doctor," he says. "Giselle, is he dead?

"Yes," she says, from her place on the floor next to the body. "Two shots to the head, it appears – the others to his back."

"Then see if you can find Henri, he should be just outside the stage door – have him take you to advise Doctor Gerard that he is needed and then to the police." He tells her. "Oh, and find something to cover _that_ with." Indicating Robert's body with a jut of his jaw.

"Before you go to the police, stop by the Chagny house and tell Phillippe what has transpired. It might be helpful to have him run interference for us," Erik says.

"Yes, monsieurs." Jumping up, she pushes back the scrim to the stage door and leaves on her errand.

Christine, Adele and Meg appear at the dressing room door, assessing the situation.

Seeing Nadir on the floor with Erik, whose once white shirt is now stained with blood, Christine cries out, running to him, "Erik?" She falls to her knees, pulling his head to her breast, leaving his mask be, she kisses the exposed side of his face over and over, rocking him back and forth. "Oh God, Oh, God, Oh, God. You are alive."

"I am fine," he tells her. "Although this suit and shirt are ruined and I shall not be playing any musical instruments for a while." Indicating the wound by placing his hand on his bandaged upper arm.

"You?" She asks Nadir.

"Alive, thanks to Erik," he tells her. "Robert was aiming his gun at us, Erik stopped him with his body – he did not have the opportunity to use the lasso."

"Who shot him, then?"

Nadir motions his head, directing her eyes to Monique.

"No, no – that poor girl."

"We wanted to protect her by keeping her away and she wound up saving us," Erik mutters. "Damn that bastard, now she will never be free of him."

His comment has Christine understand better what his nightmares are about. She holds him more tightly.

Andre peeks out from around the backdrop. He holds the piece of folded fabric out to Adele. "Giselle said to give this to M. Khan," he says. "Is everyone all right? I heard the shooting."

Nadir walks over to him positioning his body so the boy cannot see the gore. Adele hands him sheet, pulling Andre into her arms.

He carries it to where Robert lies and drapes the body.

Nadir returns to Adele and the boy, wrapping his arms around both of them. "M. Erik was injured, but he will be fine. M. Robert is dead."

"Maman will be happy to know that, I think."

"Yes, I suppose she will."

"I shall take him to Veronique. She is in the office with the managers waiting for word about what happened. I am certain she is worried sick about you," Adele says. "Come. You have done a fine job tonight."

After searching the backstage with her eyes, Meg sees Darius with Raoul and Monique near prop storage, away from the mirrors. She looks to her mother as she walks past her with the boy.

"Go," Adele tells her, "there is nothing you can do here."

She runs to her friend and her beau, who opens an arm to her, keeping one hand on Monique's shoulder.

"Monique killed him?" she whispers to Darius.

He nods. "She is in shock – I doubt she knows we are here."

Meg kneels in front of her and takes her hands rubbing them between hers. "Monique? It is I, Meg."

Monique looks down at her and her mouth bends into a polite smile that does not reach the pale blue eyes. "Hello, Meg. How are you?"

Raoul bows his head, biting his lips to prevent the tears in his eyes from falling.

"I am fine, Monique. I am fine."

* * *

 **A/N - Think of Me - Lyrics by Charles Hart, Music by Andrew Lloyd Webber**


	28. Summation

**(A/N – This is the final chapter of "A Gift From the Past," but not the end of my telling of Erik and Christine's story. "The Gift of the Present" is in the works – in my mind, if not in writing just yet. A comfortable stopping point presented itself with this chapter. The new story will pick up where this leaves off. I want to thank everyone who has read this, my first attempt at fan fiction, and everyone who has written a review. Your words have been so encouraging.)**

SUMMATION

With much grumbling and grousing by its wearer, that he was now practically naked to the world, Christine and Dr. Emile Gerard manage to remove Erik's waistcoat and cravat, leaving what remains of his shirt to cover his upper body. To quiet that complaint, Christine drapes the scarf from her costume over his shoulders. "There – better? You cannot be too injured to be acting such a brat."

Letting him know her deep relief that he was not gravely wounded would come later, once the necessities had been addressed. How her own heart nearly stopped when she saw him on the floor, his shirt covered in blood. How even that short period of time considering a life without him brought a depth of grief she never experienced, even with the death of her father. They would celebrate his life later, in private, in their own special way. For now, he must be dealt with like a spoiled child.

The towels that Nadir brought from her dressing room to clean the wound, replacing the makeshift bandage he initially used to bind the gunshot wound in Erik's upper right arm, are peeled away.

"Ouch," Erik cries out.

"The towels stuck a bit to the dried blood," Christine says. "You surprise me, you truly do, considering what you have suffered."

"It was the shock, I was not expecting the simple removal of a bandage to hurt."

From their uncomfortable positions on the floor of the stage left wings, Christine and the doctor exchange a look of exasperation as he attempts to treat the wound. The dark brown eyes twinkle, though, his white hair and the fine wrinkles framing those eyes, with deeper wrinkles etched alongside his mouth, suggest years of treating patients of all ages and genders, inuring him to most any complaint or behavior. "Men tend to be particularly sensitive to treatment – something to do with ego, I suspect."

"Harrumph," Erik grunts.

"You need to get up so we can move to a more suitable place for treatment," Christine says. "Besides, it is undignified."

Erik rests against her, refusing to get up and move to the dressing room. "This is my theater and I am not leaving this spot until I am certain everyone who needs to be cared for has been cared for," he insists.

"Then at least sit on a chair. The doctor needs to thoroughly clean and stitch the wound," Christine's tone as fierce as his. "You are in the way – sitting on the floor in the middle of a crime scene – it is dirty and people need to move past you to do their jobs."

"Madame, it is fine. M. Kahn did an exemplary job of stopping the bleeding. Overall, it is a relatively minor wound, just needing a bit of washing, disinfection and some stitching," Dr. Gerard says. "I can do that quite easily here."

"As the doctor says, you are just cranky because you were injured at all," Christine scolds as she drags a stool over for him to sit on. "Thank God it was not worse."

"If Nadir and that fool Raoul had not come running out the door before I could lasso the bastard, as was planned, I should be uninjured and perfectly fine," he grumbles as she and the doctor help him up.

"So I am a fool?" Nadir says, coming up behind them carrying the tray with the crystal decanter of Cognac and an assortment of small glasses.

"No, Raoul is the fool, you are just a…"

"A what?"

"A…good friend," Erik concludes observing the liquor.

"As are you – we are even." Nadir pours him two fingers into a snifter and hands it over to him before setting the tray down on a prop table. "What a mess," Erik sighs. "Offer the brandy to anyone who looks to need it. Is anyone else injured? How is Monique?"

"No one other than yourself, thankfully. It was a good plan, Erik. You could not anticipate how Robert would act, nor that he would be armed," Nadir reminds him. "Having everyone disperse after the rehearsal was wise – most everyone followed the order with the exception of our Meg."

"And my dear wife…ssss." He takes a sip of the brandy as the doctor inserts the needle for the first suture.

"Behave yourself and do not give the doctor any trouble," Christine orders.

"Where are you going?" Erik asks, grabbing her hand.

"To Monique. You asked how she was, so I plan to find out. I see two men and two girls over there looking like a statue scene," she tells him, squeezing and releasing his hand. "Give me a glass of the brandy, would you, Nadir?"

"You are not drinking?" Erik asks, concerned.

"No – although I wish I could. I am grateful you were injured for one reason alone – it got me past my personal distress."

Nadir hands her a whiskey taster glass. "Raoul looks like he might need a shot, too." He says as he pours another drink.

She takes both glasses, "Doctor?"

"I shall be there shortly, Madame, I am almost finished here," Dr. Gerard says.

There is some commotion at the stage door.

"It appears that the officials are arriving," he continues. "I may have to speak with the officer in charge, but shall join you as quickly as I can."

"Thank you," she says. "There are some other things I should like to discuss with you as well, once everyone is tended to here."

"Of course," Dr. Gerard replies, returning to his stitching of Erik's arm.

"Ouch!" Erik cries out again.

"Years of outrageous abuse and you cry like an infant over some minor stitching," Nadir laughs.

"Things are different now."

* * *

Christine recognizes Phillippe de Chagny, his slim, tall body, elegantly clothed as always in his preferred grey. Beside him is the police inspector she recalls from the premiere of Don Juan Triumphant. Following them are a number of officers, one carries a pallet for Robert's body. Giselle, boyish in her working clothes, and Henri, his round freckled face solemn in the presence of the police, bring up the rear.

Raising her hand to get Giselle's attention, Christine tips her head indicating she join her as she brings the drinks to Monique and Raoul. "Thank you for taking care of this errand," she says when the young woman catches up with her.

"I was happy to do so, Madame. My blood was rushing through me, I could not be still. It was a blessing to be able to have something useful to do," Giselle responds. "The drinks?"

"For Monique and Raoul – you would think he was either the attacked or the attacker from the looks of him – she appears to be in a trance," Christine says. "If you would care to imbibe, the decanter is over by Erik – Nadir brought several glasses. I would not blame you considering what you did to help save Erik."

They walk and talk.

"No, I am fine without the spirits," she replies. "I much prefer a sober mind. As for my actions, it was instinct – I knew the man with the gun would not hesitate to injure anyone he could. His first victims would have been M. Kahn and the Vicomte. Only M. Erik's actions prevented them from being shot."

"Indeed? Hmmm. In any event, you have my deepest thanks – if there is anything you need or wish for, you must tell me…us, you are forever in our debt."

"Thank you – that means so much to me. Right now I am happy to be employed with work I truly enjoy – I owe that to MMs. Erik and Nadir." Giselle replies. "Life being what it is, however, I am certain there will be a need sometime in the future." Giselle chuckles.

Christine laughs in return. "That is certainly true enough. May I ask, what did you tell Phillippe?"

"That there was a shooting and M. Robert was dead," Giselle tells her. "He told me that he would contact the police, to which I happily agreed."

"Did you tell him that Monique was the killer?"

"Yes, he asked if I knew and I did not want to offend him with a lie," she responds. "I also told him that he tried to kidnap you and shot M. Erik."

Christine nods.

"And that he attacked me."

Christine stops and faces the former ballerina – who uses her grace and agility now to walk the flies and occasionally climb down a rope to stop a killer. "And what did he say to all that?"

"He said he was sorry and he would provide whatever service he could," Giselle says. "I got the impression he felt somewhat responsible."

"Interesting. My instincts tell me that his brother is most likely responsible in some way. I am happy that he knows – that makes it much simpler for Erik and Nadir to explain all this to the police." She continues walking.

They reach the two couples. Monique is serene – her calm disquieting to the others who teem with unreleased tension. Raoul's face is full of anguish, his hands crush into one another. Darius is his strong soldier self, passive, but providing a quiet strength, a hand rests on Monique's shoulder, grounding her as if sensing she might disappear. Meg sits at her friend's feet, head in Monique's lap, face still wet with her earlier tears.

Raoul jumps up at Christine's approach, offering his place on the bench. His eyes are darker than she has ever seen them – even during the horror when he was trapped by the noose, or when he decided they should die together on the rooftop of the Garnier – a plea in them.

"What?" Christine asks him, handing him the brandy.

"I should never have brought her to the house. Phillippe said it was wrong, but I insisted she would be safer with me," he says, downing the liquor, coughing from the burn in his throat. "I showed her where I kept my gun. Then I left her alone in the house – a strange place. I lied to her." His tears begin to fall again. "Oh, Christine, I am such a fool."

"Yes, you are," Christine says. "Did she not tell you what happened with Robert?"

He shakes his head.

"Did you not ask?"

He shakes his head again.

"It was quite awful," she tells him. "I suspect that she was not quite recovered when you became…fond of her. Now is not the time to discuss it, though. She needs to be tended to. Your brother is here – perhaps it would be best if you went over to tell the police what you know."

Darius says, "I shall accompany him, Madame, I believe I should be available to answer some questions as well. It is best, perhaps, that you ladies attend to Mlle. Monique now."

After gliding his fingers along Meg's back, he puts his hand on Raoul's shoulder, directing their return to the scene of the death.

Meg watches them leave, then turns to Christine, about to burst with the need to speak. "Is Uncle Erik all right, Christine? I was so worried when Maman and I were coming down the hall and then I saw Darius and the body. It was…"

Christine cuts her off. "Yes, thanks be to God, the bullet hit him in the arm – a few inches…" She gathers herself. "The doctor is treating him. He will be fine." Sitting down on the bench next to Monique, she holds the glass of liquor to her lips. "Take a sip, dear, it will help you."

Monique pulls back at the strong taste of the cognac, the fragrance tickling her nose. "Oh, my," she says. "That is oddly terrible and good at the same time." Taking the glass from Christine, she sniffs again, then takes another sip. "I feel all warm inside."

"Have you never tasted cognac before?" Christine asks, smiling at her.

"No. My father disapproves of alcoholic drinks," she explains. "They are the brew of the devil," imitating his voice. Her eyes come to life again to take in the activity by the police, she watches as Raoul and Darius join Erik, Phillippe and Nadir speaking to another man. "What is happening?"

"You do not know?" Meg asks. "M. Robert showed up and was chasing Chris…"

Giselle presses her fingers into Meg's shoulder blade.

Christine shakes her head briskly at Meg. "There was an accident," she says quietly to Monique.

"Was someone hurt?" she asks. "Oh, there is a body. Is that a body?" She lifts herself from the bench to get a better view. "Who died?"

"M. Robert," Christine answers. "Erik was confronting him. He drew a gun. The two men struggled and the gun went off – twice."

"Is M. Erik all right?" Monique's arctic blue eyes grow wide with concern.

"Yes, dear, he is fine – a wound to his arm," Christine says, patting her knee.

"But the other bullet…"

"…killed M. Robert," Christine finishes the sentence. "He can no longer hurt you or anyone else."

Monique entire face brightens. "I should not be happy that he is dead, but I am. I am sorry that M. Erik was injured though."

Christine places her arm around her.

"I suppose there will be no rehearsal now. I was late. Raoul did not think there was a rehearsal today, but it appears that he was wrong. How sweet of him to follow me here, though. He had a meeting, so I walked." Looking around the area, she says. "I seem to have misplaced my bag. I feel so confused."

"I shall find it for you," Giselle offers. "I believe I see it over by the mirrors." Releasing Meg, content that the younger girl will keep quiet, she retrieves the pack and brings it over.

"Now that Monsieur…that man is no longer a threat, would you like to come back home with me and Maman?" Meg asks her. Looking at Christine for approval.

Christine smiles.

"Yes, I think that would be wonderful," Monique responds. "Raoul's house is very nice, but I miss being with you and Madame."

"Then it shall be done," Christine declares.

* * *

Erik completes his explanation of the plan put in place to capture Georges Robert.

"So you intended to entrap him?" Inspector Edouard Marquand inquires. The pouches under his hazel eyes are dark, giving him the appearance of a perpetual lack of sleep. Eschewing a uniform, he wears a rumpled Macintosh that defines his overall rumpled look from uncombed brown hair to unpolished brown boots.

"No, we intended to prevent him from committing a crime – abducting my wife and/or killing me," Erik snorts. "He has been stalking us for a number of weeks, and intimated his intentions to Mlle. Giselle Beauchamp, one of our employees, before assaulting _her_.

"There are other witnesses, Edouard," Nadir interjects. "The young woman who shot him was his victim. Another of our employees was abducted by him," he continues. "This exercise was not a whim, but a necessary plan to deal with an elusive predator."

"I shall vouch for what they say," Phillippe lends his voice to the argument. "My brother…"

"Ah, yes, your brother, he is involved in this as well?" Marquand says. His attention shifts to Darius and Raoul as they approach. "And here he is now."

Raoul pulls away from Darius and runs to Phillippe, wrapping his arms around his brother's waist. Phillippe stiffens at the embrace, rolling his eyes to the ceiling before embracing his sobbing brother, patting his head. "It is all right, Raoul. It will be all right." Nadir removes the taster from his hand.

"Help me stand, I feel like a dwarf sitting here with the rest of you standing around me."

"Well, you were beginning to look like an Indian mystic seeking to charm a snake." Nadir counters, taking the brandy snifter from him, adding it the tray with Raoul's empty glass.

"What do you mean mystic? Anyway, I have changed my mind."

Nadir and Dr. Gerard, help him to his feet. Straightening himself, dusting his pants with his good hand, he smooths his wig. Just becoming aware of Christine's scarf, he looks around for his jacket. "What is this?" he says, pulling the scarf from his shoulders – scowling at Nadir – the snake charmer reference comprehended. "Very amusing. Where is my coat?"

"It is ruined – you would not be able to put it on in any event." Nadir takes the shawl. "The scarf does give you a certain je ne se quoi."

Erik growls. "I should have let him shoot you."

Dr. Gerard fastens a sling for his injured arm by tearing one of the towels into strips. "You might want to replace this with something more suitable. It will help stabilize the wound and facilitate healing."

"Thank you, doctor," Erik says, holding his left hand out for the shawl. "I must cover myself with something, I suppose. This shirt is frightening what with all the blood."

"No, no. Here, take my jacket," Nadir says, removing his frock coat, draping it over Erik's shoulders. This will be fine for now," Nadir assures him. "I am certain that Christine will appreciate having her scarf back – it is getting chilly in here."

"I shall officially pronounce the assailant dead, Inspector," Dr. Gerard says, "allowing your men to remove the body. After which I should like to speak for a moment with Mlle. Du Bois, if you will excuse me."

Inspector Marquand nods allowing the doctor to pass, then turns back to Raoul. "I am curious as to your involvement in this," Marquand says.

"He had nothing to do with it," Erik says.

"I am surprised M. Saint-Rien – that is your name, correct – that you would defend him after what he had planned for you the last time I had the pleasure of visiting this glorious establishment."

"It is merely a fact," Erik says. "He acted as a look-out, as it were. He was familiar with M. Robert as an associate – a patron of the opera."

"And?"

"The young woman, Monique, is a…good friend," Raoul says.

"And?"

"My gun was used to kill M. Robert."

"Ah, so. And where might this gun be?"

Darius hands it to him.

"Nice." He feels the heft of the pistol, smells the muzzle and checks the cylinder for bullets. "Quality workmanship."

"If I may," Phillippe says, glaring at Raoul, "Mlle. Du Bois is a family friend, her father is the Baron Boisschut of Belgium. She was dancing with the ballet when M. Robert abducted her and held her for a number of months. When all of this…" he gesticulates… "was coming about, Raoul suggested she stay at our home. We were not entirely aware of how difficult her situation was in regard to M. Robert."

"She was dancing with the ballet – a member of Belgian nobility?"

"It was part of her schooling," he explains. "We were not even aware that she was here in the city, until just before this…incident."

Marquand rubs his face and shakes his head. "So what are you suggesting by all of this _family friend_ business?" Waving his hands in the air, opening his arms, embracing the entire stage and auditorium. "With all of this abduction, kidnapping accusations, noble houses in two countries – not to mention the body of a man, apparently killed by one of his victims?"

Phillippe looks at Erik questioningly.

"Accidental death. A prop gun improperly loaded during a dress rehearsal for the grand revival of HANNIBAL?" Erik offers.

Marquand side-eyes the suggestion. "Was anyone else injured?"

"Just me, as I understand," Erik says, indicating his arm. "We fought for his gun, and it went off. I was trying to get up. As I understand it, he was aiming his gun at my head when Monique shot him." His amber eyes bore into the Inspector's. "M. Khan and Mlle. Beauchamp were attempting to stop him as well, but Monique guaranteed my sustained life with her excellent marksmanship."

"And Erik saved mine – in his attempt to stop M. Robert from shooting me and the vicomte," Nadir adds.

The eyes of five men focus on the Inspector, awaiting his determination.

"Fine. Fine," he says. "No love lost here for the man. Save the state some money for incarceration and trial. Any family that you are aware of?"

"No, none," Erik says. "I have reason to know this to be true. There is…was a personal history between us, that I only became aware of recently, that dates back to our childhood. A hostility that likely exacerbated his desire to harm my wife and myself."

Marquand raises an eyebrow. "And that would be?"

"Is this really necessary?" Erik asks.

The Inspector sighs, "I suppose not – accident it is. How many shots fired – by the young woman?"

"Six," Nadir replies. "She just stood and shot, continuing to pull the trigger even when the chambers were empty."

Marquand cringes. "Six accidental gunshots, hmmm." After close scrutiny of each man's face – all of them blank except for what he could only describe as entreaty in each pair of eyes, he sighs and says, "I shall advise Dr. Gerard – perhaps they can use his body at the hospital for research – give the grave robbers a night off." He pulls a cigar from his inside coat pocket and holds it up. "Is this allowed?"

"It is not advised, Edouard – too many flammables," Nadir tells him, indicating the scenery and drapes surrounding them.

"Then I shall just chew on it," Marquand says, sticking the stogie in his mouth. "Under other circumstances, I would speak to the young lady..."

He turns to look at the small gathering, catching Christine's eye.

A small frown wrinkles her brow, she tips her head toward Monique, looking down at the placid young woman then back at the Inspector, an eyebrow raised.

Pursing his lips, he gives a brief shake of his head before returning his attention to the men.

Christine offers a small smile, mouthing, "Thank you" to the Inspector.

Gerard continues with his decision, "…but, judging from what I can observe from where I am standing, she is in no condition to answer questions – too calm…shock perhaps – in any event, not likely to offer much information. Dr. Gerard can fill me in on what he discovers." With one more look around the backstage area, a few members of the crew revealing themselves, now that the emergency has passed, he says, "You can tell the press it was an accident. It should help your box office – I am sure your managers will be happy with that news."

The tension gripping Erik and the others, is released, nervous laughter and hesitant smiles break out on their faces. Marquand squelches an inclination to laugh. Schoolboys absolved of punishment for their naughtiness is the thought that crosses his mind. Civilians. Still the plan was quite clever – the villain definitely worthy of his ignominious end. Saint-Rien would be someone to keep in mind for future investigations – his connection to Nadir Khan a plus. Phantom of the Opera. Despite his resolve a chuckle escapes.

"Thank you, Edouard," Phillippe says, patting the policeman soundly on the back.

"I would be a very happy man if there could be no further events here requiring my presence," he says, handing the revolver to Phillippe. Turning on his heel, he leaves before becoming further victim of the men's gratitude.

"Thank you, Comte," Erik says – even he finds it difficult to contain a sense of joy over the Inspector's gracious attitude toward them, but most especially in regard to Monique.

"My feelings are much the same as the Inspector's, I must say," Phillippe says, pocketing the gun. His tone sardonic. "He was quite an evil man, it would seem."

"I would say that is an understatement," Nadir counsels.

"One, two, three" The counting of one of the policemen, followed by a pair of loud grunts, diverts their attention to the officers lifting M. Robert's body onto the pallet. Dr. Gerard glances over to them, before turning back and nodding his head as Marquand likely suggests the determination he should write in his report.

The Inspector follows the procession out the stage door, a wave of a hand over his head bids adieu to them.

"Yes," Erik says. "Someday we shall all have a conversation about it over a fine Armagnac. Our present concern must be directed towards Monique, I believe, now that we know there will be no more involvement with the police."

"I shall contact her father," Phillippe offers. "We are acquainted. Does he know any of this?"

"No, I do not believe so," Erik says. "Let us retire to our office," he nods toward Nadir. "We can fill you in on what she told us."

"I shall tell Adele, I am sure it is all she can do to keep from coming out here now to give orders – her attention is directed towards young Andre and keeping the managers at bay for the moment," Nadir says as he retrieves the tray with the decanter and glasses. "She will be able to tell you more about Monique than any of us men can say and, I am sure, will want…demand to be involved in any discussion of her future."

"I should like to understand her situation better," Raoul says. "Had I known more, perhaps some of this could have been avoided."

"I shall tell the ladies what is being planned," Darius offers. "It appears that the doctor is now speaking with Mme. Saint-Rien – I am certain she will have something to add." His eyes meet Erik's.

"Thank you, Darius," Erik says. "Is there somewhere else we can gather – our office is quite small?"

"The rehearsal hall would suit," Darius offers. "There is seating."

"Perfect," Erik says. "Let us gather there, then.

"I shall tell Madame the plans."

Walking briskly back to where Christine is meeting with Dr. Gerard, Darius informs her of what Erik and the others plan.

* * *

Christine shakes her head sharply. "No, no, no," she says. "Please escort the ladies to Madame Giry's apartment. I will take care of any explanations to them…" indicating the men with her chin.

"As you wish, Madame," Darius smiles broadly at her.

Holding her palm up to Dr. Gerard, she says, "Excuse me, doctor."

Calling out to the four men beginning their trek down the hallway, "Where are you going?"

Erik, Nadir, Phillippe and Raoul stop in their tracks and turn toward her.

"Erik, wait a moment for me." To Dr. Gerard, she says, "I…we shall come by your office tomorrow. Thank you for your time."

"My pleasure, Madame," he says. "This has been quite an eventful day for you."

"For all of us," she says. "Thank you for the suggestions in caring for Monique."

"It might be well if you were to bring her to the office as well, once she is more herself – whatever that might turn out to be."

"I shall do that," Christine tells him. "A demain."

"A demain." He tips his bowler hat and proceeds to the exit.

* * *

Christine gathers up her skirts and walks towards her husband.

"We thought we should discuss what might be needed to help Monique," Erik explains.

"You men?" Her tone containing not just a little annoyance.

"Well, not just us. Nadir is seeing to Adele…and you and Meg."

Behind them, Erick observes Darius ushering Meg, Monique and Giselle toward the stage door that Henri holds open. "I see," he chuckles.

"Where are they going?" Raoul says.

"They are taking her home," Christine tells him. "She needs to rest. That is what Dr. Gerard said. She is going to get a hot bath, fresh nightclothes, a bit of laudanum in her chamomile tea and then to bed."

"Her things are at our home," Raoul says.

" _Some_ of her things – I doubt she brought all of her belongings with her. In any event, she needs to be somewhere she feels safe – that is with Meg and Madame, it was her choice when offered," Christine retorts. "Damn it. She just killed a man, an act she cannot recall – the man who raped her repeatedly and then beat her and threw her into the street."

Phillippe and Raoul both turn white, faces deadened with shock. Erik and Nadir take a step back, away from Christine's wrath.

"Oh, my God," Raoul gasps. "I had no idea."

"What did you think happened to her? That he took her to the sea for a rest – he chopped off her hair, for goodness sake – why did you think it was so short? Fashion? He was a madman." _How did I ever think I loved this…this man?_

The Comte holds his hand up to Raoul before he can say any more. "You are quite right, Mme. Saint-Rien. Mlle. Du Bois needs to be with her friends."

"I am her friend," Raoul insists. "I would never harm her."

Christine glares at him. "Raoul, . ."

A low growl emits from Erik's throat.

Phillippe takes the younger man by the arm. "Come, my brother. We shall contact her family. Her father needs to know what has happened."

"Her mother as well," Christine instructs. "She ran to Paris to escape her father, I would not count very much on his generosity of feeling towards her. She was fearful about telling him of the abduction."

"Still, he must know," Nadir interjects.

"Would you feel comfortable waiting a week or so, M. le Comte?" Erik asks, taking Christine's arm. "Do we know her age? If she is twenty-two, then he has no claim on her."

"He will likely be furious," Phillippe says, considering the suggestion. "Still, she deserves time. If their relationship is difficult, perhaps it is best to wait. Find out her age – I assume that is the age of consent for women?"

"Yes," Erik replies.

"Good, that will inform me as to the next step." To Raoul, "We shall gather her things, perhaps you can see her tomorrow?" He says more to Christine than Raoul.

"That will be fine, I believe," Christine says. "Tomorrow's rehearsal has been cancelled, I presume…"

Nadir nods. "I shall inform Adele that you will be visiting," Nadir says to Raoul, as he turns to leave. "She will be pleased Giselle is with her along with Meg and Darius. Time for all of us to go home."

"Christine…" Raoul starts to speak.

Erik visibly bristles – Christine squeezes the hand on her arm with hers. "Get some rest. You can see her tomorrow."

Phillippe leads him toward the stage door. "Come, let us leave these people in peace. I am certain that M. Saint-Rien would appreciate some rest for his injury and quiet time with his wife."

Erik nods at him. He and Christine watch them go.

* * *

"Finally," Erik says. "That leaves us, my dear."

"How is your arm?" she asks, as they walk toward her dressing room. She stops to pick up her scarf that Nadir left folded on a bench along with Erik's ruined frock coat, waistcoat and cravat.

"Let me see the coat."

"What?"

"My lasso – I had it out and do not see it lying anywhere."

Christine checks the pockets of the frock coat – she pulls out a thin wiry rope, with heavy metallic tags, wound into a circle. "This?"

"Yes," he takes it from her, tucking it into a pocket in his trousers.

"Interesting object," she comments. "I never thought I would ever say this, but I know that M. Robert would likely still be alive had you been able to use it."

"Perhaps not, the depth of Monique's pain cannot be overlooked." His mind takes him back to another time for a moment. Then he looks down at his wife, returning to the present. "You asked about my arm. I had actually forgotten about it. As you so wisely commented, I have suffered through more. I apologize for my childish behavior."

"Let us go home," she says, cuddling closer to him.

"What did you discuss with Dr. Gerard, if I may ask?"

"I told him that I believed that we were with child and that I wished to consult with him about what I should be doing," she says cautiously.

"Anything else?

"He wondered about you…about the mask…and the scars he was able to see."

"What did you say?"

"That you had a deformity and a…difficult past, but he needed to speak to you. I told him the decision to have a child was considered in light of everything." Stopping and turning to face him. "I made an appointment for us to see him tomorrow, if that is all right with you."

"Seeing a doctor would be a good idea for you, it would be wise, I believe, for that to be something to do for your entire term."

"What about you talking to him?"

"I suppose it would not hurt. Despite my own research, he may know of something new that would be useful – particularly in regard to the well-being of the child."

"You are not angry with me?"

"About caring for me and our child?" Erik pulls her even closer to him. "Never. As you told him, the decision was considered – perhaps not before there was the potential of a child, but it was a choice – our choice."

"Oh, I am so relieved. Hold me even closer, I shall never tire of feeling your body next to mine – so solid and firm – safe."

"A bit more worn and damaged."

"But alive. I am so deeply grateful for that."

"And I." He bends down to kiss her, savoring the taste of her sweet lips and breathing in the smell of her jasmine cologne – the cologne he chose for her, tinged with her musk and sweat, a faint reminder of her fear. The peace of their love embraces him. The promise of their future. _Christine, I love you._

 **(To be continued…)**


End file.
